Six Weeks Without Sundays
by Bridget Weinstock
Summary: As Lent arrives in Ballykea, the residents struggle with temptation and self-denial, but some old vices die hard. Father Mac suggests an alternative to sending Father Clifford on retreat, but will it yield the desired results? (Complete!)
1. Pancake Day

_A/N: I promised a ridiculous idea was in the hopper. This is not _that_ ridiculous idea. This is an _entirely different_ ridiculous idea. Lately I seem to want to write in step with the liturgical calendar; Ridiculous Idea #1 ran into some...ridiculousness (long story), so it's still cooking, but only on the back burner._

_This takes place in that sweet-spot of Series 3, after "When a Child is Born" but before they started beating us over the head with poor decision-making and maudlin flashbacks. Rating may evolve, depending on what **I** give up for Lent. ;)  
_

* * *

"I thought the point of Pancake Day was to use up existing stores before they spoilt."

Startled by the smoky voice of the Assumpta Fitzgerald, Father Clifford nearly dropped the carton of brown eggs. He glanced at the door of Hendley's; the bells were still there. Had he been so lost in thought that he hadn't heard her come in?

"Sometimes the theory doesn't quite cover the realities of the practise," he sputtered.

"Isn't that the truth," Assumpta retorted.

Peter swallowed. He could feel the shopkeeper's disapproving eyes alight on them.

"Big crowd expected at the supper tonight?" asked Assumpta.

"At least as good as last year's turnout."

"Feeding them well, I trust."

"If all goes well, by the time of the New Orleans Mardi Gras at Fitzgerald's, they'll practically roll down the hill to you."

"'They,' then? Won't we see you?"

Now Kathleen audibly cleared her throat. The priest tried to beam an apology with his eyes. "Let's see how long the dishes take me," he said.

"Suit yourself," said Assumpta. "Come by if you get a chance. Whatever you're giving up for Lent, I'm sure we'll have a few last morsels of it."

_If you only knew_, he thought.

Kathleen made a sound somewhere between a sob and a dry heave. Assumpta turned to face a display of food dye, and Peter shamefacedly carried his order to the checkout.

"Indefensible, to make a mockery of Shrove Tuesday," Kathleen grumbled, stabbing the price into the keypad with such intensity, Peter worried for the safety of her fingers.

"Pancakes are a storied tradition," Peter began.

Kathleen cut him off. "I meant that business," she hissed, pointing across the street. "Gluttony, debauchery...gumbo!"

Peter glanced back at Assumpta, who was hiding her smirk behind a delicate white hand. He felt the less-obedient side of his own mouth ticking upward in response.

"Thanks, Kathleen."

"See you at supper, Father."

* * *

The pickings for volunteer cooks had been slim as ever. Kathleen and her altar guild comrades all pleaded exhaustion - a funny thing, Peter thought, in the face of forty days' enforced plainness. Liam and Donal had offered their services - for a fee. Obvious budget constraints aside, Peter still felt uncomfortable giving the boys access to cooking supplies so soon after the "sweating statues" debacle. Assumpta would no sooner darken the door of St. Joseph's than abandon her own festivity preparations.

In the end, only the stalwart Niamh Egan had put in for cooking duty, with an option on dishwashing _if_ there was time before Ambrose had to hand off Kieran before his night beat. Mindful of the limitations to Niamh's culinary skills, Peter tried to have all the batter ready before she arrived.

"Hallelujah," she cheered as she poured a pleasantly-formed circle into the pan.

"That's right," he returned. "Get it out of your system now, whilst you still can."

Eventually between their two pans, they had amassed a decent skyline of stacked cakes, surprisingly few of which they'd burnt. Opening the window between the church kitchen and the social hall, they heard the first arrivals trickling in to start on Phase One of what was sure to be the Fattest Tuesday on record.

* * *

Down the hill, gumbo and jambalaya simmered on the stovetop, king cake baked below, and beignets sizzled in the fryer.

Stepping away from the kitchen, the landlady arranged a metallic half-mask on the bar above each stool, and a large bowl of matching beaded necklaces on a table near the entrance.

"Where on Earth did you get this?" cried Brendan Kearney when she handed him the mood music for the evening.

"It's 1998, Brendan. Get online and you can order zydeco and funeral jazz from anywhere. Help me with these tablecloths, will you?"

"You really think you'll see this much turnout on a Tuesday?" the schoolteacher asked, glancing around the place.

Assumpta glared at him. "If they want to tuck into pancakes served up by the worst two chefs in town, sure they'll want to come down here after and get the taste out of their mouths."

The kitchen timer beckoned her away just as Padraig O'Kelly arrived. He wasted no time donning a ridiculous mask and two strands of gold beads.

"You're early," Brendan said.

"Any drink special tonight?" Padraig asked as Assumpta pushed back through the kitchen door, a heaving tray in her hands.

"Hurricanes."

"Hope you offer an insulin chaser," Brendan quipped.

Padraig ignored him. "Love one."

Assumpta rolled her eyes. "In an hour, when we open."

Brendan smirked, ready to push another button. "Had any thought to what you'll give up for Lent, Assumpta?"

She set the tray of glasses on the bar, a mild shockwave resonating through them. "Oh, yeah," she said, eyes narrowing.

Padraig took the bait: "Well?"

She gave a half-nod in the general direction of St. Joseph's. "Self-denial." She retreated to the kitchen for a punch bowl.

"Walked right into that one, didn't we?" Brendan muttered. Padraig shrugged.

* * *

As it turned out, serving duties tapered off rapidly as the second wave of parishioners took their seats at the folding tables. Niamh joined Ambrose and Kieran at their table for a quick pancake before cleanup, and Peter allowed himself a moment to take in the warmth of the festivities, the smell of the meal he and his sidekick had managed not to ruin. He especially enjoyed watching the children attack their pancakes, with varying degrees of efficiency.

He rolled up his sleeves and pulled his apron on for a second round, unplugging the beaters and dismantling them for a good soak. The batter clung to them with mad tenacity, and he doubted the quarter-full bottle of Fairy would manage it all. At least the disposable plates and cups could be binned, though the karmic debt of the waste weighed heavy on his conscience.

So many things did, lately.

He knew rationally that the filthy dreams were well beyond his control. He could eat blander food, get better sleep, and stop drinking entirely, but it wouldn't even guarantee a change in their frequency or intensity. But spiritually, they were beginning to take their toll, to bleed into his waking imagination. To say nothing of his behaviour: ascetic cold showers had given way to hot ones in which he stayed inappropriately long, coping with his lust in a far less defensible way...

It was unacceptable. He could think of only one way out.

It had originally been Father Mac's suggestion during a particularly anguished confession. Peter really, _really _didn't want to do it. It would only highlight a problem best kept secret, only signal to others the struggle he had thus far kept as far from daylight and oxygen as he possibly could. But he could think of no other way to clear his head without abandoning his duties. It would be less disruptive than going on retreat, less of a landmine than confiding in anyone else...

Niamh's giddy singsong interrupted his train of thought now:

"Think the whole village went up a waist size tonight," she announced, tying the other apron loose around her full postpartum belly. "I think I'll do refined sugar as my sacrifice this year."

"That's quite ambitious," Peter said absently, hoping the drain could digest the last oily clumps of batter better than his own body was doing.

"What about you?" she asked idly. He paused and looked up from the suds in the sink.

She gave her familiar _don't-be-stupid_ look. "What're you giving up for Lent, Father?"

He snapped on his Marigolds with an air of austerity. "I'm giving up Fitzgerald's."

Niamh inhaled sharply.


	2. Mardi Gras

_Thanks everyone reading, following, and reviewing! I'm trying to stay at least a couple chapters ahead of what I'm posting, and some of your predictions are getting very warm! I'm sure I won't keep up this daily pace, but I felt it was time for the second half of fictional Shrove Tuesday to go live, not a week ahead of the real-life timetable. (In 1998, it was on 24 February. Yes, I checked.)_

_Please keep the feedback coming, if you have it to spare._

* * *

Accordions and fiddles pulsed in the background as a growing tide of revellers filled the few gaps in their stomachs, letting gumbo and jambalaya slide in between the pancakes like a sort of gustatory grout. The sweetness of hurricane cocktails fought for palate space with the fatty decadence of the beignets, and the landlady still hadn't even brought out the _real_ dessert.

If she were honest with herself, she'd admit she was waiting for one particular guest - and he'd likely be the last to arrive. It was well past nine o'clock before he did, and he had changed into civvies, no less. Assumpta noticed he had a few shirt buttons undone up top, as if to flaunt the part of his neck usually obscured by the dog collar. She caught herself staring too long at the soft hollow below his Adam's apple. It was practically the same as an ordinary man showing up naked, for the effect it had on her concentration. She envisioned a flock of good-looking English priests, converging on The Big Easy and exposing their necks in exchange for shiny plastic beads.

A freckled hand waved in front of her eyes. "Assumpta," Siobhan said, as if for the third time.

_Now would be a good time to blink! _ "Mm?"

"You all right?"

Assumpta felt her skin flush. "Sorry. Hurricane?"

The vet nodded, sliding some coins across the bar. As the publican made her change, she watched the curate linger at the edge of the crowd. Since when did he drop in only to avoid her?

She retrieved the king cake from the kitchen now, setting it out in all its gaudy splendour. The bright green, purple, and gold of the frosting seemed unapologetic in their unnatural garishness.

She told herself she was distributing slices at random, told herself she couldn't remember where the prize was hidden, but she found herself cutting the thing rather strategically, saving a particular segment for very last. She bit her lip as the recipient lowered his fork into the pastry, touching down almost instantly on the tiny porcelain trinket inside.

"Looks like Father Clifford got the baby!" Donal announced.

"Next party's on you, Father," Liam chimed in.

Assumpta smirked at the pair, ever content to shine a light on the obvious. Then she aimed a softer smile at the priest. "Lucky you are that fun of any kind is proscribed the next forty days," she said.

"No kidding," he answered. His smile didn't reach all the way to his eyes, and his gaze didn't reach all the way to hers.

"Hurricane?" she tried.

He made eye contact for only a split second. "Better not."

"Who on Earth says 'better not' on Shrove Tuesday?" Brendan cut in.

"Eat, drink, and be merry, Father," Padraig said from behind his mask, "for tomorrow we die!"

Peter rolled his eyes.

"Well, if you won't drink," Assumpta said, "how about coffee and chicory?"

For whatever reason, the stimulants seemed to hold some appeal.

* * *

_Stay. Don't stay. Help clean up. Don't help. _

He had just a bit longer to make up his mind. It was, after all, his last chance to hang round the pub until the "break" from abstaining on Sunday. _Probably should just steer clear entirely until Easter, _he reasoned. _No. Too obvious. One pint on Sundays. _

_One._

The sight of his landlord reminded him of the other thing he meant to do tonight.

"Brian!"

The businessman's usual look of grudging impatience had softened somewhat with a battery of hurricanes. "Father?"

"Is it all right to lower the water thermostat at my house?"

"No problem, no problem. Can I ask why?"

_Ask Onan what he'd do in a warm shower,_ the priest thought. He spoke the excuse he'd prepared in advance: "Just thinking of my energy use. Safety, too, I guess."

"Thing's rather touchy. Bit of a fuss to adjust. I'll stop by tonight and walk you through it."

"Thanks."

Peter felt relieved at the incidental curfew this imposed on him. He had to leave when Quigley left. No temptation to stay late collecting glasses now. No fear of gathering new material for the absurd peep show that had recently overtaken his rapid eye movements.

He glanced at her again, in spite of himself. She was looking at him, but quickly turned away.

* * *

Assumpta knew deep down that she was getting the cold shoulder. Peter's avoidance was clearly deliberate, not some oversight in the haste of his preparations for the Lenten season. Whatever his motivation, the thought of her had not merely combusted in the fire of last year's palms.

She watched him pocket the stupid porcelain baby and exit with Brian Quigley, a clear sign he would not be lingering to assist with cleanup. The back of her neck went hot again, this time with frustration. What had she done to alienate him? Why come to her party and gawp at her all night, then act like a stranger when she addressed him?

She took out the pique on the pot in front of her, scraping away scorched-on rice grains with brute force. She had no patience for grown men who dealt in passive-aggression. If he was punishing her for failing to read his mind, he had better expect some consequences. One more stunt like this, and she wouldn't hesitate to bar him.

* * *

"You really want it that cold?"

"It isn't cold, Brian. It's all I need!"

"How will you sanitise your dishes?"

"Fine, fine, a couple degrees more. I just don't want things to get too hot." _That sounded wrong. _ "I don't want to be..." _Tempted? _"Scalded."

"You'll be lucky not to go hypothermic," Quigley snorted.

Peter ignored this. "I appreciate the help."

Brian left, and Peter shut the utility closet.

Upstairs, he undressed at his bedside. As his trousers hit the floor, a tiny clack alerted him to the king cake baby falling out of his pocket. He buried it in the drawer of the nightstand. One less reminder.

It didn't help. After ninety sleepless minutes, he found himself seated on the green sofa in the pub kitchen, the resident temptress standing before him. He soon realised neither of them had on anything but a Mardi Gras mask. She climbed into his lap; every inch of him that came in contact with her felt luminous.

Her lips brushed his ear. "What are you giving up, Peter?"

"Drinking," he gasped.

"I don't think so. What are you giving up?" _That voice._ He wanted to hear it make very specific noises.

"The pub."

"Keep trying, you're so close." She hovered precariously above him; if he moved a single muscle ... connection. Union. "Peter, please; have you decided what you're giving up?"

"Everything," he said aloud, waking himself. _3:36_. His clock, the long fast ahead, the irrepressible reactions of his own body...all of them were mocking him.

He lay still for what felt like ages, until the physical symptoms subsided. Then he headed to the bathroom for a lukewarm rinse.


	3. Ash Wednesday and Saturday Confession

Ash Wednesday was predictably quiet at the pub, with so many of the villagers fasting until after the evening service. Every visitor who did come in for dinner looked famished; some gorged to make up for lost time, but others restrained themselves in the spirit of the day. All bore the telltale grey smudges on their brows. It bothered Assumpta to think that today, Father Clifford had lovingly run his thumb over their foreheads in blessing; had whispered a reminder about the meaning of things; had _physically touched and spoken to everyone in town except for her. _ She thought of all the reasons and places to draw pictures on someone's bare skin, all the substances to use as a finger-paint, all the things to murmur in someone's ear...

Niamh caught her eyeing the pub entrance. "Doubt that barrel delivery would get in today," she said.

Assumpta grunted. _Different kinds of denial, _she thought bitterly.

Last orders came and went with no sign of the curate. _Busy,_ she told herself, and then _yeah, right._ As she latched the door behind the last departing punter, she wondered what he was hiding from.

* * *

Peter stared dumbly at the mite box on his kitchen table. He had planned to put a coin in for every thought of her, but it became quickly apparent by Thursday afternoon that he would need a much bigger alms box, and possibly access to a change machine.

Or a mint.

_I could run to the pub and have her break a few bills down,_ he thought, immediately recognising the flaw in his logic.

The teakettle began to hiss, and as the heat and pressure built up within it, the hiss turned quickly to a scream. He pushed numbly back in his chair and reached a long arm across the narrow room to pull it off the heat. The pitch of the whistle fell sharply now, evoking thoughts of a cartoon character plummeting off a cliff.

He drank his tea without really steeping it for any significant length of time, then stepped out into the brisk air.

Hendley's it was.

"I'm afraid I can't sell you any change," Kathleen said, a look of shallow pity on her face. "Need small coins when you deal in odd amounts. On the other hand," she began, then stopped abruptly.

"What?" Peter asked.

The shopkeeper wrinkled her nose. "The pub might be more than happy to cash down. Bank deposits and such."

Unbelievable. Kathleen Hendley, of all people, was nudging him toward temptation.

Stepping out onto the street, his eyes fixated on Assumpta across the way, manoeuvring unwieldy barrels from the back door of the pub.

_Go lend a hand. _

_No! Hide now, before she sees you. _

_It doesn't count if you don't go inside the pub._

_Like hell it doesn't!_

Seeming to sense his stare, Assumpta looked up. _Busted._

At first she appeared to brighten at the sight of him; after a moment, that brightness gave way to confusion, then exasperation. Finally, she rolled her eyes and disappeared back inside.

* * *

"Pint of lager if you would," Niamh called over the bar.

"Cultivating Kieran's palate already?" Assumpta grinned.

Niamh shook her head, retrieving a bottle from the baby carrier for emphasis. "Way I've been pumping I should be good for a few hours."

"Well enough," Assumpta said, pulling the pint.

"Besides," Niamh went on, "Gotta keep the light stuff moving somehow."

Assumpta froze, pint in hand. "Sorry?"

"Well, with Father Clifford giving up pub life for Lent, and all. Someone has to pick up the slack."

"What?!"

"You should be flattered," Niamh said casually. "I gave up sweets meself. You know how fond I am of-"

"Not sure the comparison holds, Niamh!"

"I don't see how it's any different. A vice is a vice!"

Assumpta bit down hard on her tongue as she mentally pieced together the justification for her anger. "When did he tell you?" she sighed.

"Pancake supper."

"He made no mention later that night!"

"I'd have dropped in and told you, but Kieran was fussing and I was knackered. I don't see what the big shock is. So he gave up drink. It's not like he's Irish."

Assumpta's cheeks burned. "Anyone else know?"

"How should I know that?"

"Not a word to any other customers, Niamh. Clear?"

"What, teetotaling's contagious?"

"Rather not wait to find out!"

Niamh shrugged. "Fine." Her brown eyes darted to the chalkboard menu. "Fish special again?"

Assumpta marched for the kitchen door. "Get used to it!"

Safely out of her friend's sightline, Assumpta leaned back against the counter. _It's only business,_ she assured herself. _I'm only worried about business. It would be no different if it were Siobhan or Michael._

She ran the water in the sink for a moment to make her hiding sound purposeful.

_He didn't give up _drink, she thought. _He gave up _my pub!

* * *

Saturday confessions had run longer than usual, a natural effect of parishioners reflecting on repentance and penance. Peter knew it would taper off as the season wore on, and this thought brought a feeling of anticipatory relief - and an aftertaste of guilt about the same. He should want his flock to stay the course, to keep the spirit of solemnity, even if they returned early to the chocolates or cigarettes or naughty literature they'd forsworn. Still, he supposed it was human nature for their grip to slip with time. He only hoped he could keep the promises he'd made to God and to himself - in both the long and short terms.

As the red Fiesta chugged reluctantly along to Cilldargan, he thought how this might technically count as the second of seven churches. It was something he'd meant to do several years running now, but he had always seemed to trip up on his commitments.

_Well, if nothing else, I'll have more spare time this go-round,_ he thought as he slipped into Father Mac's booth.

"Bless me, Father, for I have-"

"Oh, good heavens, Father Clifford, not again!"

"-sinned, it's been five days since my last-"

"I know, I know, don't you think you're overdoing this?!"

"-confession and...no! No, I think it's barely enough as it is."

"I'm well aware of where your thoughts have wandered and I'm willing to venture a guess that you haven't dealt with them exclusively by sublimation." The older man sounded nauseous.

"Actually I've kept it pretty well together since Wednesday."

"Congratulations," Father Mac spat. "So what have you come to declare?"

Peter wondered if the parish priest treated all his penitents this way. He dearly hoped not.

"I don't know. The dreams haven't stopped and I guess I feel responsible."

"I've advised you."

"Yes."

"You have followed my advice?"

"Yes!"

"Then for pity's sake, exercise a little patience!" he yelled. The irony was lost on Father Mac, if not on his subordinate.

Peter crossed himself again, and left without expecting absolution.


	4. First Sunday etc

_Thanks again if you're still tuning in, and thanks doubly for all the feedback and follows. (singtomemymeadow - Peter's first dream is at the end of Chapter 2, but yes, we'll have more! In fact...)_

_As you probably know, the "40 days" of Lent doesn't count the Sundays. Lots of us take this as licence to lift our promised abstinence on the sabbath, depending on how we've restrained ourselves.  
_

_With that in mind, time to check in at the pub..._

* * *

Sunday evening, the regulars gathered at Fitzgerald's to lay money on whose self-discipline would collapse first.

"Five quid says Siobhan cracks first," Brendan smirked.

"Not bloody likely," the vet retorted over her Harp.

Niamh grinned. "Why, Siobhan? What'd you give up?"

"Gambling."

Assumpta walked over to the dry-erase easel near the till and marked the relevant square on the grid labelled "Lent Pool."

"So," she said, "no wager from you then, Dr. Mehigan?"

"It _is_ Sunday," Brendan winked.

"I won't fall for that one," Siobhan said. "I can't place a bet today and retract it the next six!"

"We could work it so you only win on a Sunday."

"Do you take me for an eedjit, Brendan? You can't win it on a Sunday."

Padraig's mirror eyes were bright. "What about you, 'Sumpta?"

"Ten that you'll smoke again before Easter Vigil."

"How'll you prove it?" the mechanic challenged.

"Told Kevin if he reported you, I'd cut him in on my winnings."

"You're leading him on, Assumpta," Brendan chuckled. "You'll break his heart."

"Brendan, red meat, fifteen," said Niamh.

"Prepare to pony up," Brendan said. "Hardly miss it."

"My money's on Niamh and the sweets," Eamonn squeaked.

"Be a long wait for you, Eamonn," Niamh teased, waving a fork over her cake slice. "I'll do just fine, long as I get my Sunday chocolate fix." She stuffed a heaping forkful into her mouth.

"Twenty on whatever Father Clifford's trying to forego," said Brian. His daughter nearly spat out the cake.

Assumpta's grin soured. "You don't know what it is?"

"Near as I can tell, it's comfortably warm showers," Brian mused.

"Suppose a vow of chastity'll do that to the best of us," Padraig blurted.

It flustered Assumpta to hear the others chuckle at the implication. Just then, Peter entered with Ambrose right behind. She quickly hid the whiteboard under the bar, and the laughter dropped off.

"What'd we miss?" Ambrose chirped, the usual boyish grin competing with the authority of his uniform.

"Nothing, not a thing," Brian assured.

"What're you giving up for Lent, Father?" Brendan asked. Assumpta made no effort to contain her snort.

Peter opened his mouth as if to respond, but Kieran's wail spared him. He lifted the baby out of his carrier.

"He'll be needing a change," Niamh warned.

"No trouble," Peter said.

The mother looked grateful. "Bag of nappies on the coat rack." Peter retrieved it with his free arm.

"Do it in the toilet, if you would," Assumpta said.

Peter pulled a face.

"Health codes," Assumpta said innocently. "Isn't that right, Gard Egan?"

Ambrose nodded sheepishly at the priest.

"There's no surface to change him on!" Peter protested.

Assumpta shook her head and marched from behind the bar straight into the men's room. Peter followed her nervously, Kieran on his shoulder.

"Just had this put in yesterday," she said, slamming a hand on the wall-mounted change station.

"In the men's?!"

"Evidence suggests you lot can change babies too. Besides," she added meaningfully, "this is where I wanted it."

"Well I couldn't have known it was here!"

"Course not, you're avoiding the place."

"Assumpta!"

"Strikes me hypocritical, to be honest. Did Jesus get a pint once a week in the desert?"

"There's no reason to take that tone."

"What do you mean, 'tone'?"

"Does my business really make such a difference?"

"Funny you'd mention, Peter, that _is_ none of your business!"

"Then what makes my reasons any of yours?!"

Both stood silent a moment, breathing too quickly. In an effort to keep their voices hushed in the echo chamber, they had moved inexcusably close together. Their eyes had locked for too long.

She tore her gaze away. "Look, I'm just a purveyor of vice, what do I know?"

"Please, don't..."

Raising a hand to silence him, she moved for the door. "Wash your hands when you're done. Health codes."

"Assumpta -"

"Hot as you like," she called over her shoulder, missing the horrified look on his face.

* * *

The narrow bed in the curate's house seemed particularly inhospitable that night, but Peter couldn't hope for insomnia. It would have been easier than what awaited once his eyes were shut.

She knew what he was avoiding. Perhaps she even knew why.

He got up for his morning shower, only to hear the water already running. Stepping in, he felt the water hot on his back - hotter than it should be, given recent adjustments. He turned to the faucets only to find Assumpta, naked, beautiful, standing under the stream.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, but he made no move to leave.

"Hot as you like," she said.

"It's supposed to be cold," he said, reacting visibly to the sight and closeness of her. "We have to cool it down."

She bent over the faucets, tantalizing him. "Peter, I can't do it. I can't make it any colder."

He looked at the dial, cranked all the way to the blue letter C. It was still gushing out hot enough to steam.

"Peter, what are you giving up?" she said, backing against him.

"Hot showers," he choked.

"Not quite. What are you giving up?" She pulled his arms up to embrace her. He couldn't resist it.

"Perversion," he muttered through his teeth, frustration and shame and longing all plaited together in his voice.

She pressed her whole body against him. "Almost. What are you giving up?"

"I gave it up years ago!" he heard himself yell, bolting upright.

_3:28_, the clock radio teased. He buried his face in the single pillow.

* * *

A couple evenings later at Hendley's, Kathleen noticed Niamh eyeing the chocolate bars on the counter.

"None for you today?" Kathleen asked innocently.

"No thank you," Niamh replied, affecting more confidence than she felt.

"Fair enough."

"Padraig been in for his cigarettes yet?"

Kathleen only shrugged.

"Siobhan for a lottery ticket?"

Kathleen shrugged again, forcing a smile.

"How about Brendan's ham sandwich?"

Kathleen's mouth tightened into a scowl. "I am not at liberty to say."

The penny dropped.

"Kathleen, have you given up gossiping for Lent?!"

"It's been surprisingly easy," Kathleen said, looking utterly tortured.

"Good on you," Niamh said, trying to sound reassuring.

She paid for the baby food and orange juice, and then hurried across the street.

Entering the pub, she saw Siobhan staring into a pint of Harp, and Brendan watching the taps, looking miserable.

"Where's herself?"

He nodded toward the kitchen. Niamh went in.

The air hung thick with the fragrance of bacon. Assumpta sat at the table, chowing down on a BLT as if it had personally insulted her.

"Torturing Brendan, so?"

"You're next," Assumpta managed between bites. "Wait'll you see my dessert."

Niamh pouted. "Padraig wasn't kidding when he said you gave up self-denial."

Assumpta smiled spitefully. "Mmm. Isn't Lent grand?"

"Bite your tongue."

"Yup. Anything I can help you with?"

Niamh nodded in the direction of Hendley's. "I want to change my bet."

Assumpta rose, sandwich still in hand, and went out front to retrieve the grid.

Brendan took a whiff of the food. "'Sumpta, you trying to kill me?" he whimpered.

"Pehish da fought," she said through a mouthful.

Siobhan's face brightened. "I'll be impressed if you're still indulging every whim on Easter Eve."

Assumpta sensed a challenge. "Don't think I've got it in me?"

"No one can give into every temptation that crosses their path. If I were in for the pool, my money'd be on you."

"Just as well you're not, then." Assumpta took another pointed bite.

"Shouldn't be eating behind the bar," Niamh droned. "Health codes."

"Speakin' of," Brendan mused, "anyone heard from the cold-wash clergy of late?"

Assumpta chewed more angrily, biting the inside of her cheek.

"Better be off," Niamh breathed. "Ambrose'll have his rounds, and Kieran's probably hungry."

Her mouth throbbing, Assumpta glared unabashedly at the departing brown ponytail.

"Hasn't been one for the pub much lately, has he?" Siobhan reflected.

"Something the matter?" Brendan asked, noting the publican's scowl.

Rather than answer, she demolished the last morsel of sandwich. The blood in her mouth ruined the taste, and eating it was only painful.


	5. A Week

_You're all amazing, you know that? (Big thanks especially to Mcbenzy, whom I find myself trying to emulate more and more with this story. Long way to go before I can claim that ability, of course, but your feedback always turns new lights on in my brain.)_

_FictionPress's support team is also amazing, and I'm sure I'm not the only one singing their praises after they addressed the new-chapter bug Sunday. They do a fine job, let alone for a free service. Lots of gratitude!_

_Disclaimer: Any similarity to any actual Wicklow parish is purely coincidental; I don't know Niamh's official canon birthday._

* * *

Kevin O'Kelly felt mildly guilty about it, but part of him enjoyed watching his father squirm. Outwardly, he projected an air of pride and support, picking up carrot sticks and chewing gum at Hendley's, offering distractions in the shape of board games and crossword puzzles. Inwardly, he was...well, a bit giddy.

He considered the predicament a win-win; either Da would quit and the house would smell better, or Kevin could make a little money in the Lent pool.

His own sacrifice was going more smoothly. He hadn't touched a comic book any day but Sunday, and he hardly missed it.

All the same, confession was confession, and he knew that everyone sinned every day, so he reported as usual Wednesday after school. Waiting in the pew, he ran through the Deadly Sins, trying to determine which lined up closest with the way he felt.

When his turn came, he stepped into the box and crossed himself.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a week since my last confession." He paused.

"Whenever you're ready," came Father Clifford's voice.

"What kind of sin is Schadenfreude?"

There was a pause. Kevin could have sworn he heard the priest chuckling.

"I'm serious, Father!"

"Forgive me. Where did you learn that word?"

"Mr. Kearney assigned it as extra-credit for spelling once."

"Why'm I not surprised?" Kevin could hear the smile in Father Clifford's voice.

"But it's a sin, isn't it?"

"It's not unlike envy, I suppose. Sort of the backward version of that. How have you been guilty of it?"

"Me Da gave up smoking for Lent."

"And it's funny to see him struggle?"

"Shouldn't be." He picked at a cuticle. "But yeah."

"Okay. Are you teasing him?"

"Trying not to. Trying to cheer him on."

"That's not so bad, then."

"But if he fails, I'll sort of benefit from it."

"How's that?"

"Miss Fitzgerald and I kinda have a bet going."

"You're gambling then?"

"Whole town is!"

"Oh, really?"

"There's a pool going for who's going to break their promise first."

"I see. And you've bet against your father?"

"Assumpta did. I get a cut if she wins."

"Kevin..."

"I shouldn't be gambling, should I?"

"Well, you're not really to blame for this."

"What should I do?"

The priest sighed. "Keep supporting your father. Be patient with him. And if he fails, try not to lord it over him."

"What if Assumpta wins the pool?"

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, okay?"

* * *

"Assumpta, can we ever change the channel?" Padraig moaned.

"Please?" Siobhan begged.

The landlady affected her best wide-eyed naïveté and looked up at the TV, where a bunch of men in zoot suits circled a table, puffing on cigarettes and playing poker. "What's the matter? Don't you like it?"

"No!" they barked together. Brendan chuckled between them.

"Wish I could help," said Assumpta. "Seems we've lost the remote."

"Liar," Padraig grumbled.

"I'm serious. Pint to ease your nerves?"

"Look in the same closet where you keep your whips and chains," Siobhan said, nodding all the same.

"Told you she was a sadist," said Brendan.

Doc Ryan turned to Brian Quigley at the other end of the bar. "Given up anything yourself?"

"Golf," Brian returned.

"It's barely March yet!"

"So?"

"In the weather we've had?"

"Could've happened." Brian said, indignant. "What about you?"

"Caffeine."

"I'll bear that in mind if I need emergency surgery."

Michael shrugged.

* * *

Friday breakfast at the Garda house was decidedly plain - eggs in whole-wheat baskets, with not a speck of syrup or jam in sight.

"Niamh, are you getting enough calories to feed the baby?"

"Ambrose, I know what I'm doing! Are you sure you're getting enough...enough...whatever it is you get from your stupid jigsaw puzzles?"

"I'm doing fine," he defended.

Niamh rose to clear her plate, then plucked the baby from his high chair. "Besides, Kieran knows Mammy will fill up on butterscotch pudding tomorrow, and he'll get enough sugar to kill an army. Isn't that right, Kieran?"

The baby let loose a delighted squeal.

Ambrose frowned. She'd been irritable since Pancake Day. "Is there anything I should know?"

"You think I'd hide something from you?" she said, not looking away from Kieran.

"You might."

"Don't be silly. Kieran? Kieran, is your daddy getting paranoid?"

Kieran answered with a mouth bubble.

Ambrose put on his jacket and hat, and left with only a nod as goodbye. Niamh stuck her tongue out at the slam from upstairs.

"We're not going to tell Daddy about the pool, are we? Nor Father Clifford's incredibly dumb idea, right? No we aren't! Right!"

* * *

That week's confessional field trip found Father Clifford at St. Alice's in Wicklow.

He mainly knew Father Ben Murphy by reputation - early 40s, glasses and a beard, bit of a live wire, not really known for his solemnity, and generally more relaxed than Frank MacAnally. (Then again, even the statues in the courtyard were more relaxed than Father Mac.) They'd had occasion to meet at a few diocesan functions in the last few years, but interacted little beyond surface pleasantries. Maybe the man's distance from Peter's situation - and his reputed openness - would offer some needed perspective.

Thanks to some corrosion on the Ford's battery terminals, though, Peter arrived only as Father Murphy was leaving his post at the booth.

Father Murphy smiled in recognition nonetheless. "Father Clifford, isn't it?"

"Am I late to confess?"

"Just so, but could I talk you into lighting out for a pint?"

Well, he hadn't given up _every_ pub for the season.

O'Sullivan's was a distant second to Fitzgerald's, as far as Peter was concerned; the selection was less impressive, the layout less navigable, and the corner booth draughtier.

Perhaps he was being unfair. Yes. He made up his mind to adore this place for the next hour.

The men claimed their space with their coats, then made their way to the bar for orders. The bartender emerged, an attractive woman not quite Father Murphy's age, with a square jaw and oatmeal-coloured hair.

"Annie, a black ale for me and a lager for my guest, if you would."

Watching them exchange money and drinks, Peter noticed something he shouldn't. Their hands brushed too much, verging on a caress. Their smiles weren't bashful, but rather almost defiant.

He told himself it meant nothing, and took exceptional care not to spill from his overfilled glass on the way back to their booth. Once seated, his companion looked back over his shoulder without missing a beat. Winking? Whatever he did, Annie nodded back at him, beaming too brightly. No one else in the pub even batted an eye. When Father Murphy turned back to face Peter, he was grinning unabashedly.

"Nothing like your local, is there?" he mused. "Don't know what I'd do without her."

"Yeah," Peter said noncommittally. He glanced back at Annie, who seemed to be entertaining a good-natured ribbing from her own regulars, with more than a few nods toward the priest thrown in. Nowhere in the place did anyone look ashamed. Unease had by now trickled onto his face very slowly; Peter figured he could hide it in his drink a few seconds. _An affair?_ The way everyone carried on, it seemed it was an open secret. _Alice, of course she'd be their patron! All of them turning a blind eye, and making no move to do anything about it._

Yet there sat the other priest, calm and relaxed, perfectly content to live a lie. It occurred to Peter that he didn't even feel especially like condemning this man. Still, he might not be the right person to confide in.

"So, Father," he said. "What was it you wanted to talk about?"

* * *

Daylight burst rudely into the master bedroom at Quigley Manor as the clock radio went off Sunday morning.

"And if anyone can tell us the top three hits on this day in 1976, we have for you a week-long golf holiday package at the fabulous new Hinterlands Resort, sponsored by Tayto," the radio DJ announced, making it sound as if she derived unspeakable pleasure from waiting by a switchboard.

His heart raced as he remembered. Niamh's mother; their first night out since their daughter was born. Parking by the shore, listening to the countdown on the car radio, laughing through mouthfuls of Riesling. He'd memorised the whole top ten. _Of course I know them. Like the back of my hand, I know them!_

Then his stomach lurched. _Lent!_

_Maybe the trip'll take place after Easter._

"You'll take off on 6 April, and be back just in time for Easter Sunday," she purred.

Brian hit snooze and rolled over in his bed with a groan. So much for his extensive knowledge of '70s music! Fat lot of good it did him now!

Nine minutes later, she was at it again.

"Still no winners. C'mon, big man, we know you're out there!"

_Snooze._

Nine more minutes and he awoke to a caller naming two artists who were already dead by '76, and a third who was not yet born.

"Mmm, sorry, no," said the breathy alto. "Still up for grabs, County Wicklow. Get to the telephones!"

Brian ripped the plug from its jack and burrowed under his quilt. He was in no mood for Mass.


	6. Second Sunday

As Peter entered the vestry following Mass, he could only think that violet wasn't really his colour. He appreciated the quiet contemplation of Lent and Advent well enough, but the vestments did his complexion no favours. The gold of feast days wasn't much better, and the red of mourning and Passiontide seemed to fight with him.

Peter liked Ordinary Time. Green liked him back, made his wild eyes look normal, natural, less alone.

He wondered when he had become so preoccupied with his appearance. No, that wasn't quite right: he knew. It was about a mile before he first set foot in town, on a day he must have looked like a drowned rat anyway.

The same reason he'd made his harrowing admission to the parish priest, same reason he was sleeping poorly, same reason he was _entirely _too thrilled about the prospect of his weekly pint tonight.

Even if she was still furious with him. _It'll help,_ he told himself. _Burst the bubble. Yes, seeing her upset will definitely snap me out of this senseless infatuation._

He nodded into the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door.

_In fact, why delay it? _

"Brunch it is," he told his reflection.

* * *

Fitzgerald's took on a special, quiet conviviality the second Sunday. Padraig cherished his cigarette like a deep massage. Niamh savoured her pudding slow and easy, dark eyes closing with each bite as dormant tastebuds came alive again. Michael seemed to huddle around his coffee protectively, as though it might run away if he failed to supervise it. Even Siobhan took a certain delight in watching horserace results and checking them against her fantasy bids.

Indeed, the only regular not enjoying a borderline-conjugal visit with vice was the publican herself. As she mulled the cruel irony of this, the blue door opened to reveal the bane of her existence. He was still in his suit, but with that neck exposed like a taunt, and that slip of white plastic sticking out his pocket in a way that would surely amuse Dr. Freud.

Assumpta was less than amused. "Well, look what the Catechism dragged in," she snapped.

"Father!" came a delighted, staggered chorus, further irritating her.

If Peter noticed her displeasure, it did nothing to spoil his own mood. Spotting Ambrose in a far corner, he silently asked Assumpta to meet him in Accomodation for a quiet word. She followed him, too eagerly.

"Where's the board?" he whispered.

"What do you mean?"

"I know what you're up to."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"I doubt that very much. I understand there's a bet going on everyone's abstinence."

"And so what?"

"I just want to see it," he said.

"What, to place a bet?" She looked doubtful.

"I might!"

"Ante's at 20 quid."

"I'm interested."

Assumpta glanced at the Gard currently working a small jigsaw puzzle (one hundred pieces, assorted seashells) on a pub table. "Can't show it to you right now," she pleaded, eyes darting.

"Fine. I'll wait."

"Think you can stand to?"

"If you'd let me explain..."

She screwed up her face. "Not sure I'd be satisfied." She flounced back into the pub.

He watched her go, watched the bounce of her hair, the cling of her jumper, the swish of her skirt. He reminded himself to close his mouth before he followed.

"Right, then, give us a pint of lager and a bowl of stew," he said, claiming the seat beside Siobhan.

Assumpta pulled the pint and slipped into the kitchen, shaking her head.

"Good to see you come round, Father," Brendan said with a pointed look. "Must've been...seven days, now I think of it."

Peter exhaled and rolled his eyes.

"Come to mention," the teacher went on, "last time before that was Fat Tuesday."

"Given up subtlety yourself then?" Peter muttered.

"It's almost as if Father Clifford gave up the pub for Lent!" Donal observed. Siobhan shot a look as if to pat him on the head with her eyes.

"Don't be an eedjit," Liam retorted. "He'd only do that if he were coming round too often, or for the wrong reasons."

Peter whirled round to face them, his eyes bulging. "Do you mind?!"

Brendan put his hand to his forehead.

"Give up anything yourselves, boys?" Niamh asked, hoping to redirect things. The pub door swung open behind her.

Liam and Donal gave her matching looks of bewilderment.

"What would we give up?" Liam blustered.

"How about sloth!" came the thundering voice of their boss.

Assumpta returned with a bowl of stew, setting it in front of the priest without a word or a glance. "Afternoon, Brian; what'll it be?"

"Only a coffee, for the moment," he said.

Michael raised his own mug in approval, but put up a steely face.

"How goes the puzzle, Ambrose?" Peter asked.

"Be an hour yet at least," Niamh answered for him, scowling.

"Trouble in paradise, eh Niamh?" Padraig howled, his words redolent of Benson and Hedges.

Niamh stared daggers. "You ought to know."

It was enough to quiet him down.

* * *

Two hours later, Ambrose was only half finished, and Peter had worked his way through three more pints. Assumpta could see his reticence beginning to slip.

"Ambrose, would you like some help?" Siobhan asked, sensing that the rest of the gang wanted to discuss their wagers.

The Gard shrugged and waved her over. Siobhan winked over her shoulder at the publican. Grateful for the distraction, Assumpta shot Peter a daring look, pulled the whiteboard from under the bar, and slinked into the kitchen. Peter followed her once again.

"Fine," she whispered. "There it is."

He wasn't looking.

"Peter, why are you staring at the sofa?"

"Nothing! What?"

She frowned. "You wanted in on the pool?"

He leaned over the grid.

"Anything tickle your fancy?"

"Just...hang on," he stammered.

It was quiet for a few moments. She watched him hunch over the table as if the stakes included his very life. _Why are you here?_ she wanted to ask. _Why is this place only good enough for you once a week? _

He noticed something. "You can't give up self-denial for Lent, Assumpta!"

"Why not, _Father_?"

He flinched. "It's counter to the point!"

"Ah, well! Maybe I should have given up the pub. Great hotbed of temptation and sin that we are."

"I told you I could explain," he said, looking nowhere near prepared to do it.

"And I'm still waiting."

He swallowed. "I spend too much time here."

"Says who? Father Mac?"

He looked away.

"Oh, for the love..." she trailed off.

"It gets in the way of...I have a hard time focusing on..." He sighed.

She sighed back. "Lots of priests hit the bottle in this country, Peter. I never thought you indulged more than you should."

His voice got small. "It's not the bottle."

"Then what?" she asked, looking away, her own voice shaking.

"Assumpta," he began, as if begging her to let him off the hook.

She met his eyes. "Know what?"

"What?"

"Don't worry about it." She clumsily pressed the purple Expo marker into his hand, then beat a quick exit.

Not livid.

Not burning with rage.

Almost..._resigned._

* * *

Halfway through the vulgar-sized bottle and Assumpta was already sick of the champagne bubble bath. Booze did no good when applied topically, and the supposed luxury seemed a waste when she knew she'd be soaking alone. Besides, no one would be at the intimate distance necessary to take in the fragrance, which struck her cloyingly sweet anyway.

Still, there had to be a way to eke some indulgence out of it. She lingered in the water until the foam subsided, until her fingertips wrinkled...

Until the water wasn't comfortably warm anymore.

_Dammit!_

Brian's little revelation a week ago had created a most inconvenient association in her mind. Every little thing seemed to trigger thoughts of the curate, naked and wet and shivering. _Cold showers and he's avoiding the pub! If I didn't know better..._

His strange antics in the kitchen today, his "none of your business" remarks as he changed Kieran a week before...no. No, it would do her no good to dwell on it. It had certainly done no good the last hundred times he sent mixed signals. Peter Clifford was a living fountain of absurd behaviour; a woman could go mad taking any of it personally. Her own stupid attraction finally its chance to languish. It was time to take advantage of that chance.

She drained the bath and stepped into a dressing gown.

_But dwelling on it is what I'm _tempted_ to do. And I promised myself..._

_Then again, it is Sunday..._

_Bloody Hell, even when I'm deliberately breaking his rules, I end up following them! _

She allowed herself to imagine him again, dousing himself in ice-cold water to chase away the ardour he couldn't fulfil, eating half-frozen microwave entrees because he couldn't face her. She felt possessed of an urge to track him down, wrap him in a blanket, give him a hot toddy, warm him up by a fireplace. Warm him up by any means necessary...

She was done denying herself these tawdry fantasies. She sank into them now, immersed herself in them, felt them wash over her.

* * *

At about the same time, Peter was finally surrendering to sleep.

Soon he was on the bridge overlooking the river, naked once again but warmed by an unseasonably balmy breeze, and she against the opposite wall, just as naked, pushing hair off her face. He tried to look away, but he couldn't; then he tried to stare, and couldn't do that either.

He noticed a tree had sprung up from the middle of the bridge. He didn't question this, didn't question the bottles of beer that hung from it like fruit. He walked over to it, took a bottle in his hand.

"And yet, everybody always blames Eve," she called to him.

He smiled and let go of the bottle.

She moved closer and took his hand. "Think someone will notice us?" she asked.

"We'd be hard to miss," he said, trying for levity. Her hand moved up his arm, over his shoulder, pulling him close.

Her breath, her skin was warm against him, and he noticed the breeze getting warmer as well.

"Have you decided what you're giving up?" she whispered.

He was holding her, caressing her. _He was not meant to be doing this. _"Twenty for the ante?"

"No. Peter, come on. What is it you're giving up?"

"Self-denial?" he pleaded into her neck.

"Getting warmer..." Oh, and it was! "But no."

"Assumpta..."

"Peter, you have to decide what it's gonna be. There isn't much time."

"Why?"

"Because the bridge is on fire."

He stared at the wall of approaching flames in disbelief.

"It's a stone bridge!" he yelled, waking himself.

_4:01, _the clock sneered.


	7. The Following Week

Frank MacAnally had successfully come this far in Lent without indulging in a single broadcast of _The Pit_, the late-night Tuesday radio show that had secretly captivated him for several months now. He'd been meaning to break the habit for most of that time; it was hardly the sort of entertainment he'd encourage his parishioners to take in.

It wasn't especially bawdy or disillusioning, exactly; it wasn't especially _anything_. It was a young man at the microphone, expert on nothing in particular, hosting guests who were experts in odd, seemingly useless things, and callers who had silly questions about those things. One week it was an improvisational comedienne, the next a vet who trapped and neutered feral cats, the next a distance runner. None of their interests appealed to Father Mac, none of their trivia lingered in his mind after the broadcast ended. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what compelled him to return to it. And yet, there he had been, whiskey in hand, glued to the speaker as the theme music poured into the damp quiet of his room.

Not this season. He could instead devote his Tuesday nights to odd jobs that needed his aid around the parish. It would be a good way to keep the curate's hands busy (ahem) as well. Frank shuddered at the memory of the needlessly detailed confession.

Tonight, the two priests were in the office at St. Joseph's, rolling coins from the collection boxes: sliding them into the colour-coded plastic funnels, jamming the paper wrappers down into the tubes, trusting that the measurements were correct about how many inches' worth of pennies equalled how much of a pound. The rhythmic jingling of the coins was pleasant to the older man's ears, as was his subordinate's relative quiet.

He did speak eventually. "Would it be all right if I bought out a few of these rolls meself?"

"I see no reason why not. Keeping a mite box of your own, I take it?"

Father Clifford nodded.

"How goes your other...area for improvement, by the way?"

"Um. Fine. Down to the occasional Sunday pint."

"Good. It's important for a priest to recognise when he's being tested, to take the proper steps."

Peter nodded again.

"Gave up a little vice of my own this year," Frank went on. "One of those radio call-in shows. It simply had too much hold over me. Now I'm devoting those hours to what needs doing."

"Must be quite a challenge to forego it," Peter said absently.

"That's the thing about bad habits, Father. They're seldom as significant as we treat them. I would be willing to bet that you hardly miss the pub - and its proprietress - anywhere close to as much as you thought you would."

"Right," Peter said, pairing wide eyes with a taut smile.

Frank nodded, superficially approvingly, thinking inwardly that Quigley was right about Father Clifford: the man couldn't act his way out of a bubble bath.

_Or a cold shower._

Frank shuddered again.

* * *

The lip-licking parade through Hendley's was picking up speed and might. No longer was Niamh in every other day to glance at chocolates; now it was morning and night, strolling past the window, coveting jelly babies. So, too, Padraig and his tobacco, Brendan and his sandwiches, Siobhan and her lottery tickets, Ambrose and his puzzles, Michael and his instant coffee crystals. It was like this every spring, of course.

Only this time Kathleen couldn't talk to anyone about it.

When the other altar guild ladies dropped in on Wednesday for their usual scuttlebutt, it was harder than ever for the shopkeeper to bite her tongue, but bite she did. As the two-man rank-and-file of Quigley Developments appeared for their third "lunch break" of the day, Kathleen could only gnaw on a toffee to quiet herself and listen to the inevitable cross-pollination of the respective grapevines.

Liam examined an apple from the produce display. "Do you think it's true, Donal?"

"What now?"

"Did Father Clifford swear off the pub?"

The women froze in place.

"You said yourself he'd no reason for it," Donal recounted.

"Maybe he does, though."

"Money?"

"Or liquor."

Maggie could no longer help herself. "Flesh," she blurted out, eliciting a gravelly giggle from her friends.

"Nah," Donal said, "she's doing a Friday fish special. And Brendan's the one gave up red meat."

"Not that kind of flesh, you moron!"

Kathleen almost inhaled her toffee.

* * *

By Thursday midday, Michael's resolve had just begun to wear thin.

He had managed to keep the headaches at bay by keeping hydrated and downing a paracetamol as needed - no cheating with caffeinated menstrual formula, no feigning ignorance about green tea. He had resisted the less-than-intoxicating scent of the nurse's instant brew that morning, controlled the habitual reach for the ceramic mug that bore the crest of his alma mater.

When he dropped by the pub for lunch, it all came crashing down thanks to two different women named Fitzgerald - a dark one with a bright voice, playing on the stereo, and a pale one with a dark voice, grinning mercilessly as the lyrics began to register:

_Black coffee_  
_Love's a hand-me-down brew_  
_I'll never know a Sunday_  
_In this weekday room_

"Assumpta, would you mind?"

"'Fraid I can't help you, Doc. Nobody negotiates with the late, great Ella."

"I like Sinead O'Connor's version," Brendan said, pointedly sipping his own cuppa.

"We Egan men are partial to the Ray Charles cover," Ambrose added, beaming at the baby in his arms. Niamh nearly grimaced at the sound of her husband's voice.

"You're in luck, gentlemen," said Assumpta. "Just so happens I've made a mix tape of them all."

Michael smiled wearily and shook his head. "Raking us over the coals."

"So this is how it'll be 'til Easter?" Siobhan chuckled.

"Just until someone falls off the wagon and we settle up," said Assumpta.

"Only one loss you're interested in," Padraig muttered.

"Everyone has a financial stake, true," said Assumpta.

"Not what I meant," Padraig blurted out, surprising even himself.

Niamh's grip tightened on the tap. For a moment the song hung alone in the air of the pub, as the punters silently inspected their watches and utensils.

"Oh, what?" snapped the publican, not waiting for an answer. She stormed into the kitchen, leaving Niamh to cover the bar.

"True Father Clifford gave up the pub, then?" Siobhan ventured.

"Only logical explanation," Brendan said.

"Go easy on her," Niamh warned under her breath. "Her pride's bruised, is all."

The regulars contemplated this against the warm, watery piano coming through the speakers.

_All I do is drink black coffee_  
_Since my man's gone away..._

* * *

The drive to St. Gertrude's required leaving early Saturday morning, and rehearsing a confession as condensed as possible beforehand. Father Morrison was something of an unknown quantity, robust and ruddy in a way that evoked a sanguine personality, but with a surprisingly high tenor voice that suggested meekness.

In their moment of confidence, Peter got a sense that the man was a bit of both: warm and kind, but unassuming. Peter didn't even know if the other priest knew who he was. It seemed wrong to ask outright, but worse still to bury the lead.

"How does a priest know if he's losing his grip?"

Father Morrison chuckled sympathetically. "Define 'grip,' if you would?"

"On his vocation. On reality."

"Dunno. Fact you're worried is a good sign. Are you hallucinating?"

Something in the absurdity put Peter at ease. "Not so far as I know."

"Do you think everyone else around you is crazy?"

Peter smiled a little at this. "Not most of them."

"What's troubling you?"

"Dreams. Obsessions."

"About violence?"

"No."

"Good. Children?"

"No!"

"Good. Livestock?"

Perhaps he wasn't so meek. "What?!"

"Forgive me. Little levity seems to help draw it out sometimes. A woman, then?"

"Yeah." He could barely vocalise it.

"But it's all happening in your head?"

"Only that."

"Good."

"My superiour tells me to scrub her from my mind."

"Ah, the 'don't think of an elephant' method. Working well?"

"Should say not."

"Imagine that. Been avoiding her?"

"Every day but Sundays since the imposition of ashes."

"Not helping either, so."

"No."

"That's not so unusual."

"There must be more I can do."

"Been to a doctor?"

"What?"

"Make sure things are normal with your chemistry, that sort of thing."

"I assumed it was a spiritual matter," Peter said, carefully, as if it were obvious.

"Father," the older priest said, "I speak from experience: the stresses of this line of work can exact a staggering toll on a man's body. If you're sleeping poorly, if you can't concentrate..."

"Well, yes, but..."

"Father, butchers, bakers, and candlestick makers head straight to the doc for a miracle pill when they hit walls like this. Guess what priests do?"

"Go off the deep end?"

"Nailed it in one. Know why?"

"We feel like we should be infallible?"

"You want to frame it altruistically? You can't be fit to lead your congregation if you're in a living hell every waking moment."

"It's not just the waking moments," Peter admitted, though the sleeping moments were hardly unappealing.

"Like your GP in the village well enough?"

"Oh, very much."

"Talk to him. You can't blame yourself for these matters if you haven't investigated the possibility of a physical cause."

Peter left feeling as if he'd been handed a compass that might or mightn't really work.


	8. Third Sunday

_Thanks to anyone who's still with me. This chapter brings us halfway through the 1998 Lent period; although I have the second half roughly mapped in my head, your feedback always inspires me and enriches what comes after it, as do your own fics. To borrow a phrase from Margaux, all of you who publish or review will probably find nods to your own ideas here. _

_singtomemymeadow, your comments have successfully tempted me to declare my nationality - I'm an American as well. (Sure my occasional dialect slips made it all too obvious to some.) ;) So perhaps the no-fast Sundays are a regional thing? I've been Googling the issue like mad since I started this fic, and I find plenty of dissent on the matter on this side of the pond (and no doubt everywhere else). I've done it both ways myself from year to year, depending on what I sacrificed. Unrelated question now that I'm "out" - is your local PBS affiliate still airing Ballykissangel, and is it still using the Peter/Assumpta promotional spots well past the point of their departure? That's what mine's doing, and I choose to believe it means everything after the power outage in the pub is just someone's bad dream.  
_

_Speaking of dreams..._

* * *

Kathleen felt weighted to the kneeler at Sunday Mass. With no organ solos to distract her in these solemn weeks, Father Clifford's every shortcoming seemed more glaring, larger peas under a thinner mattress. His accent had never gone down easy, true; but now she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, his clumsy sign of the cross, his frequent spacing out at the pulpit. She listened as he quoted the Gospel of Matthew.

Again.

As he'd done every Mass since the start of the season.

_"Whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show that they are fasting."_

Was he not looking a mess on purpose? Did he want some sort of medal for his grand public gesture of restraint? Should she congratulate him for turning away from his schoolboy crush on the publican, when he oughtn't have it - or at least ought to conceal it - in the first place? Father MacAnally had overcome his youthful dalliances; was there any hope for the young Englishman?

She realised she was missing the sermon.

"Matthew reminds us that _where your treasure is, there your heart will be also_. In this season of quiet renewal, of penance and repentance and abstinence and almsgiving, think about where your treasure is, where your heart lies."

He glanced in the direction of the pub, so briefly she was certain no one else noticed it.

The rhythmic snoring of Eamonn Byrne drowned out what was left of the sermon. Kathleen found it no less compelling and far more genuine. Approaching the station for Communion, she noticed the priest's hands had more than the usual difficulty picking up the wafer.

* * *

In spite of the downhill grade of the street, Peter tried to go slow on his way to Fitzgerald's, tried not to look too eager for his weekly pint. (It _would_ be just a pint this week. No more dawdling and adding extra drinks, whatever the excuse.)

And, he'd decided, no participating in the Lent pool. Already a few parishioners had confessed their surrenders - one to questionably-tasteful magazines, one to cheese, one to television. Far as he knew, all the regulars were still on their respective wagons, but he couldn't ethically place a bet given his access to privileged information.

Ambrose was out on parking patrol that afternoon, and so the rest of the usual crowd were openly discussing their wagers when Peter arrived. A hush fell over them as they noticed his presence. The publican tucked the board away, then folded her arms and averted her eyes.

Peter gave a knowing look. "Oh, come on. You don't have to hide it from me."

"Ever make up your mind which horse you'll back?" Brendan asked.

Peter shook his head. "I don't think it would be fair, given what people tell me in the booth."

"Want to see it anyway?" Assumpta offered spitefully.

"He doesn't have to see it," Brendan and Padraig chorused.

Peter furrowed his brow. "Yes, Assumpta. I'd love to."

"Assumpta!" protested the men at the end of the bar. Peter ignored them, leaning on the counter.

"Oh, you might want some privacy," said Assumpta, snatching the board away and beckoning him into the kitchen.

Peter followed her, wondering what amount of hesitation would be correct in this circumstance, certain he wasn't hitting the target.

Niamh watched them go as she emptied her Coca Cola Classic with a noisy slurp.

"This won't be pretty," Siobhan warned her wingmen.

Past the kitchen door, Peter was incredulous. "Everyone's betting against me?!"

"Not everyone. Brendan and Padraig changed their bets to match Brian's, that's all."

"And Liam, and Donal, and Eamonn!"

"Fine. So?"

"Why are all the men turning on me?!"

"Not all the men. Father Mac hasn't come by in eons, and Doc Ryan hasn't bet against you."

"Michael, right. Thanks for reminding me, I need to talk to him."

"About what?"

"Never mind. Look, why do they think I'm going to crack?"

"Ask them yourself. You seem to think it's a 'man thing.'"

"What's that supposed to imply?!"

"Peter - _Father,_ I've a lunch rush. Are we finished here?"

"Assumpta, wait."

"What?"

"This-what I'm doing-it isn't your fault."

"Oh, for God's sake! You're very good to forgive me!" she hissed.

"No, I mean I don't blame you! This is my problem."

"What exactly is your problem?!"

He couldn't answer.

"Think, Peter! The size of this town! Think for just a moment how it looks! You're not hearing them crack wise about it the rest of the week!"

He sunk down onto the sofa, regretting his choice immediately.

She didn't climb into his lap, of course. She turned away, facing the Aga. "Is it working?"

"Is what working?"

"Whatever the hell you're trying to accomplish with this silly six-days-a-week avoidance, is it starting to work?"

She sounded, once again, as if she knew exactly what his reasons were. His skin lit up in a blotchy mix of flush and gooseflesh.

"No," he admitted. "It isn't working."

She turned to face him now, her dark eyes glistening. Tears? For the first time, it occurred to him that the pain wasn't his alone. He couldn't help himself. He rose and crossed the kitchen in a few quiet paces, then put his arms around her before he could reconsider. At first she was rigid, shaking in his embrace. Just as he was about to let go, she relaxed and returned it. He had never really held her before. It was the warmest he'd felt in weeks.

It was the most he'd felt like _himself _in _years._

_Kiss her._

_Don't kiss her!_

_Let her do anything she wants._

_What are you doing?! Let go!_

_See if she'll just let you hold her forever._

Padraig's gruff howl bled through the kitchen door: "Assumpta, customers!"

She looked up at him apologetically. "Don't have much time," she said, breaking away, sounding far too much like his dream...

To say nothing of leaving him to wonder just what had taken place.

He composed himself over a glass of tap water and returned to the pub a moment later. He ordered a pint and she filled it, both acting as if nothing had happened. As if by agreement, almost, by mutual understanding. Not a word between them, just ten minutes' drinking and a nod goodbye.

He left the pub and walked in the brisk air to the bridge, half expecting a tree to sprout up through the paving stones.

* * *

Tonight's dream found them in the van. For some reason he had to take his driving test again, and so she was teaching him once more. His concentration kept failing him.

"Should we put on some clothes?" he asked.

"It's no use," she said. "Everyone already knows."

He now noticed parishioners lined up on both sides of the road, some scowling, some waving and laughing. Ambrose was breathing into a paper bag. Brendan was waving a fistful of bills in the air.

"Eyes on the road!" Assumpta cried. Peter looked ahead to see Father Mac charge in front of them, palms forward as if he could stop them. Peter swerved to miss the parish priest, and the van sailed into the ditch.

Peter and Assumpta caught their breath a moment, then looked at each other. She loosed her safety belt and jumped out the passenger door. He followed her. This time there was no mud, only soft moss beneath their bare feet.

"I'm sorry!" he said.

"You nearly killed us!" she grabbed him by the bicep and shook him. The shaking grew weaker, her expression softened, and again she pulled him into her arms. He felt her breathing and heartbeat slow back down to normal.

"Are you okay?" he whispered. He felt a kiss on his chest in response.

"Peter, what are you giving up?"

"Being tested."

"You can't do that. What are you giving up?"

"Priest perks."

"Getting closer."

"I just need some time," he begged.

"I can't wait forever," she said. "What are you giving up?"

"Control!" he said, feeling her pull him to the velvety green groundcover.

As they tumbled down, side by side, he woke with a start. A plunge, even.


	9. And the week after THAT

The two men in the examination room had touched off an endless feedback loop of yawns. The bald one standing up had been awake only half an hour, having beaten the snooze button within an inch of its life. The lanky one on the table had been up since 4:27 a.m., and his reflexes were no sharper for the icy shower and hot Earl Grey he'd taken in between.

"Something I've always wondered..." Peter trailed off into another yawn. "What is it called when you dream you're falling and you jump awake?" He couldn't roll his sleeve high enough, so he gave up and removed his shirt altogether.

"The medical term is a hypnic jerk," said Doc Ryan as he strapped on the blood-pressure cuff. "Fairly common, especially if you're under stress."

"Good to know." Peter tried to relax as the cuff gripped his arm in the same place Assumpta had done in his dream. The pneumatic action of the pump sounded too like her panting in his ear. He tried not to imagine her naked before him now.

The doctor read the gauge. "Bit high."

_No kidding. _"Hm."

Michael put the stethoscope in his ears. "Deep breaths?"

Peter felt the cold bell on his chest in the same place he'd dreamt Assumpta's warm, soft mouth the night before. He then imagined her kissing him everywhere it touched: his rib cage; his back...

"Couple spots near your hairline," commented the doc, shattering the reverie. "Change shampoos recently?"

"Huh? No, nothing new there."

"So you're having sleep troubles?" Michael put the stethoscope back around his neck.

"Dreams, mostly."

"Nightmares?"

Peter swallowed. "Not exactly."

"Always with the hypnic jerk?"

"Not until last night."

"New medications or supplements?"

"None."

"Anything you can recall that seems to precede the dreams?" Michael stifled another yawn.

"Yeah."

Michael waited. Peter pretended not to notice.

"Father, you understand professional confidence as well as anyone in this town. What you tell me in this surgery is as privileged as any confession I share with you."

Peter nodded, still silent.

"Wild guess: it isn't unrelated to your choice to abstain from the pub of late?"

_Way to softball it._ "No."

"And are the dreams equally as vivid if, say, you take a nightcap at home?"

"No," Peter said again, more hushed now.

"Any other changes in your usual routine?"

"Been taking shorter showers. Cooler water." He prayed that the doctor wouldn't infer the motivation.

Michael frowned. "Hormones, so."

"I beg your pardon!"

The doctor rubbed his temples. "There's a growing body of anecdotal evidence that regular cold showers might boost your testosterone levels. If that's what's happening, it could be part of the problem. Hormonal changes can play hell with your mind. And your blood pressure. And your complexion."

_And your libido,_ both men thought, neither daring say it aloud.

Michael's next yawn wasn't one he could suppress. "Lay off the cold showers. See if it helps." He blinked a few times. "My orders," he added, before the priest could protest.

* * *

In the blue living room of the Garda house, an exasperated Niamh threw up her hands. "I'm only saying it isn't wrong to return one, and let the other represent both gifts!"

Ambrose frowned at the two identical baby monitor sets, then glanced at his wife. The first wave of silly baby gifts at the shower had only amused or delighted her. The second wave after the birth met with quiet gratitude, and some expected exhaustion. The third wave began a week after the birth announcements went out, and it had already fuelled six different spats.

Had she grown more impossible in her great no-sweets experiment, or had the loss of his usual recourse for clearing his own mind merely left him more irritable?

Either way, he felt in the mood to let her pick this fight. "Shall we return the one from your godparents, or the one from my favourite aunt?" he said coolly.

Niamh's eyes widened as her lips did the opposite. She grabbed both gift tags off the unopened boxes, throwing them aside. She took the boxes from the sideboard and set them on the coffee table.

"Eyes on the prize, young man. Follow the money." She began moving the boxes on the table like a shell game.

"Niamh, enough."

"Oh, no, big boy, you think these things have souls of their own, you should be able to tell them apart."

It was already too late; he had already looked up at her, and couldn't tell which was which anymore.

"Now," she growled, "you open this one and put it up in the nursery. I'm taking this one to St. Joseph's and see if there's any use for it there."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Call it almsgiving!" she yelled before slamming the door.

Ambrose sighed, retrieved their personal stationery from the writing desk, and composed two near-identical thank-you notes.

* * *

Peter examined the gift, then looked across his desk at the bearer. "It's very kind of you, Niamh, but I'm not sure what I'd do with a baby monitor."

"It's a one-way radio! Might prove helpful for security, say, the next time someone breaks in and writes graffiti. Or smears chip fat on the statues."

"You mean I might recognise the perpetrator's footsteps?" he smiled wearily.

"You've had to care for abandoned babies before!"

"I never meant to make a habit of it!"

"Oh, for God's sake, Father, will you just take the bloody thing?!"

She was weeping.

Peter rose from his chair and moved round to hers, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Niamh, this isn't really about duplicate baby gifts, is it?"

"I don't know what's the matter with me! Every time I look at Ambrose I have this...this overwhelming impulse to ring his neck!"

"I don't think you really mean that," he said. "You've both been through quite a lot of upheaval in recent weeks. These things are stressful. You have to cut yourselves some slack."

"All I want is some peace and quiet and a bowl of raw biscuit dough," she snivelled.

He handed her a tissue. "Tell you what. When you're ready for a night off, I'll be happy to step in and look after Kieran. In the meantime...come to the market with me. Maybe a little yoghurt and fruit will hit the spot." She nodded and rose. He helped her on with her coat.

"Father?" She looked up at him cautiously. "We miss you round the pub. All of us."

He searched his mind for a response that would be anywhere close to satisfying. Finding none, he only shrugged and held the door, leaving the useless baby monitor where she'd left it.

* * *

Assumpta was running out of ways to punish the regulars with their proscribed vices, and the regulars were running _into_ ways to make _her_ squirm. For all Peter's glaring absence, his name came up in passing more than ever, and no one would stop glancing at her when it did.

Least of all Brendan.

"Drinking on the job, so," he commented as she finished a pint of treacle-thick porter. "Sure you'll balance your tills all right?"

"Sure. Thanks, mother," she shot back.

"Penny for 'em?" he tried.

"No bargain. Another Guinness?"

"Nah, nearly time for confession."

"Didn't know you were bothering," she said, refilling her own glass.

"Lent, Assumpta. Excellent time to make up for the lapses of the rest of the year."

She shrugged and raised her glass.

As the afternoon lull set in, she had planned to slow her drinking - no need to belabour the point. But for whatever reason, the regulars were dragging their feet - save, of course, the unusually-devout Mr. Kearney. So she kept her glass close at hand, another nail in the coffin of self-denial.

By the time the last lunch customer _did_ clear out, she was well beyond buzzed. She checked the clock: half past four. She felt a strong impulse to make two telephone calls - the Chinese, for delivery, was the first.

The second inspired more trepidation, more calculation - _why am I doing this now? Is he even through hearing confessions? _

_Is that what I'm about to do? Confess everything?_

As her hand made contact with the telephone, it rang against her palm. The alcohol in her system dulled the surprise; she merely lifted the handset to her ear.

"Fisszherald's," she slurred.

"Everything all right?" said Siobhan's voice on the line.

"Fine, fine," Assumpta covered, feeling strangely like a teenager concealing drunkenness from her parents.

"Forgot to ask over lunch today - has anyone won the pool yet?"

"No, all holding steady as of this afternoon. Why?"

"No reason, only curious." Siobhan sounded hurried. "Ta."

Assumpta returned the receiver to its cradle, too numb to wonder at the purpose of the call. She dialled the number for the curate's house before she could think better of it, but six rings in, she gave up. Feeling restless as she waited for the delivery, she scribbled an impulsive, sloppy, four-paragraph letter.

* * *

Scheduling prevented Peter from making it to confession at St. Cecilia's, another church in Wicklow, but he figured he would still benefit from some quiet contemplation in her pews.

He was right about contemplation, though wrong about quiet: he happened to arrive just in time for choir practise. He noticed a few others scattered about the church, unabashedly listening in on the proceedings. Seeing it was not forbidden, he sat down to observe as well.

The director had all the diplomacy and patience of a young Father Mac, but a decidedly more...flamboyant air. The choristers were a motley crew of both sexes and various ages, bound by an apparent common thread of thick skin and rowdy irreverence. When the director yelled, "Altos! You sound like a lot of drag queens!" the altos only laughed and fired a few cheap shots in response.

The seeming chaos disappeared when they returned to the number they were rehearsing - "Be Thou My Vision," as it happened. Now they were sober, unified, reverent. As soon as the director stopped them again to correct a misprint in the sheet music, they lost their composure once more, giggling and making jokes at one another's expense. The white-haired veterans were no better-behaved than the young adults, and there seemed to be a deep intergenerational bond among them all.

_If Fitzgerald's were a church,_ he thought, allowing himself a bittersweet smile as the music resumed. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the hymn, its translated English verses and ancient Irish melody by turns comforting him...and breaking his heart.

* * *

_This chapter is dedicated to my choir director. But don't tell him. It'll go straight to his head. :)_

_It occurs to me that Peter never officially put his shirt back on. Oh, well! I also feel weird posting this on such a momentous day... (It's still 28 Feb in my time zone, as this goes live. I know they'll smash the pope-emeritus's ring with a silver hammer, but...does anyone know what they do with it after that?)_

_But seriously: this is still supposed to be at least SORT of funny, and I hope it's not dragging too long or getting too mopey (two charges our heroine might level at Lent itself). Please keep chiming in with whatever feedback you have!_


	10. Laetare Sunday part I

_Lest it appear as if I'm copycatting Margaux Chutney's stormy-weather moves, note that I'm still staying a chapter ahead of what I post. This Laetare Sunday has a part II forthcoming, after all. That said, if you're not following MC's latest (unlikely as that seems), you really ought to be!_

_I did a little, um, "method writing" as I scribed Assumpta's letter. Call it "dedication to the craft": I wanted her drunken ramblings to sound, er...authentic. (Special thanks to Harp Lager and Meantime Coffee Porter. This is an unpaid endorsement.) Anyway, I hope it rings true as a result. As always, I appreciate your input!_

* * *

The weather had evidently missed the memo about Laetare Sunday, continuing the long rainy stretch that only worsened attendance at St. Joseph's. Ambrose hadn't even been able to persuade Niamh out of bed. Given Kieran's recent propensity for colic, perhaps it was just as well only one Egan was present at Mass today.

The gard found himself counting specific blessings that somehow made him feel guilty and shallow - the solace of a pew all to himself, when he should be in church for the community; the peace of a few hours' break from the baby, when he should long for the small weight in his arms. When he spotted Father Clifford in his ridiculous twice-a-year pink (officially "rose") vestments, Ambrose felt more grateful still that the curate had talked him out of taking up the cloth.

Then Ambrose felt guilty about that, too.

His discomfort mounted with each hymn Kathleen struggled through, her lack of rehearsal time all too clear in light of the traditional fourth-Sunday allowance. After all these years, the season still made him dizzy. _Fast, don't fast on Sunday but don't overindulge, fish isn't meat somehow, now fast again, don't rejoice, rejoice just a little..._ His mother had been so meticulous (if not always strictly accurate) in her observance, Father Clifford's approach seemed almost slapdash by comparison. Rather than relaxing Ambrose, it set him on edge.

Ambrose liked order. He liked parts that assembled in a logical fashion. He liked ritual and predictability, and Lent was meant to be ascetic and plain, but by this phase in the cycle it always meant entropy.

Interlocking pieces that didn't fit.

He needed a mess he knew how to clean up, some disorder to put back in its place. Failing that, he needed a pint.

"Father?" he asked on his way out after the recessional. "Care to join me at the pub?"

The priest didn't need to be asked twice.

* * *

Assumpta prepared the bar for the brunch rush - taking particular care to set Padraig's favourite ashtray at his usual spot, to brew the coffee a little stronger for Michael - and paused in horror at the sight of the paper tucked into the till. She had to have been more than tipsy to have composed _this_, she thought, cringing at the lack of inhibition and the nightmarish penmanship. She had forgotten all about it, but now the recollection of her self-assessed "brilliance" flooded back, infinitely harsher in the light of sobriety.

Thank God no one had seen it.

The first wave of customers came through the door. She ripped the letter into a dozen pieces and hastily dumped it into the bin near the reception desk, affecting a mellow cheer for the first round of orders. Her bar-back Niamh arrived late, sleepy-eyed and wearing Kieran in a sling over her chest. Seeing the baby, Padraig put his unlit cigarette back in its box.

"New era in self-discipline, Padraig?" Siobhan teased approvingly.

"Missing them less by the hour," he said. Doc Ryan looked nervously into his yet-untouched coffee.

"How about you, Niamh?" Brendan asked. "Sweets been calling your name of late?"

She only shrugged.

Siobhan looked about to say something when Ambrose and Peter entered together, the priest silently offering to hold the baby as Niamh distracted her husband.

"Ambrose," she said, motioning for him to meet her in the accommodation lounge as she handed Kieran to Peter. Assumpta spotted her chance to hide away the grid in the kitchen.

She hadn't expected Peter to follow her.

"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed, trying not to alarm the infant he held.

"I wanted to look at the bets!" he said innocently.

"Nothing's changed. Besides, you opted out on a conflict of interest anyway!"

Now Fionn circled their feet, apparently restless. The setter let out a muted whimper.

"Oh, don't you manipulate me," Assumpta muttered.

"Russet hair and dark eyes, tough combination to say no to," Peter blurted out.

Assumpta shot him a look - one she hoped served as a warning that he was not currently on good enough terms to flatter her, however clumsily. It was then she realised he had also startled himself. His face fell.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she whispered, looking away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered back. "Should I walk him for you?"

"You're watching the baby."

"And you have a full pub. I'll take Kieran in to Ambrose. It's no trouble."

"It's raining."

"Yeah, that happens where I come from, too. I'll manage."

"Peter..."

"Get out to your customers. I'll handle these two blokes."

She swallowed her pride. "Thanks."

As Assumpta returned to her post by the taps, Peter crossed the room with Kieran on his left arm and Fionn's lead in his right hand. He told himself the hush over the room had nothing to do with his emerging from the kitchen with the landlady, and came upon two stone-faced Egans in the lounge. Their own conversation had likewise ground to a halt.

He proffered Kieran apologetically. "I've volunteered to walk the dog," he began.

Without a word, Niamh rose and grabbed the lead from his hand, pulling on her slicker and coaxing Fionn out the door with her. Ambrose didn't watch her go.

"Anything you'd like to talk about?" Peter asked gently.

"We're both wound a bit tight, is all." Ambrose didn't look up. Peter now noticed his friend was piecing together something on the table. Not a jigsaw.

A piece of hand-shredded paper?

"Where'd you find that?"

Ambrose shrugged. "It was in the rubbish bin by the front desk." He must have spotted the alarm on the priest's face: "I put the text face-down, sure it's not my business."

Peter was charmed by the gard's sense of ethics. "Just wanted to make sense out of something chaotic?"

Ambrose set another piece in place. "I guess so."

Peter noticed a section had blown off the table when Niamh opened the door. He picked it up and turned it over without thinking. It was Assumpta's absolute worst handwriting, and his eyes made out four words immediately:

_"way I feel about"_

He quickly set it face-down on the table, letting Ambrose determine its place by shape alone.

"Ambrose," he said, checking the steadiness of his voice, "I've told Niamh that I'm available to play nanny anytime the two of you need to get away. Even a couple hours would do you both some good."

"I know. I just need to actually talk to her without any distractions."

"Go catch up to her now. I'll mind Kieran."

Ambrose nodded, quietly set the last piece in place, and left.

Checking through the doorway, Peter saw Assumpta quite busy at the bar. _Now or never,_ he thought.

_This is none of your business._

_You have to find out._

_Turn over one more piece. Top left hand corner, maybe._

The top left hand corner was his undoing.

_"Dear Father Clifford"_

He pocketed it, turning over its neighbours and racing through them, looking up after each full stop to make sure he wouldn't be caught.

_"I'm writing this under the sound advice of the porter I've been swilling all afternoon. Sort of a continuation of my 'no self-denial' theme these last few weeks, perhaps, and yet...oh, how very Catholic of me: I am writing this to confess my own sins, and to absolve you of...well, of whatever._

_I know. I am under-qualified to do that. But for the last three years I have told myself you deserve something better than the truth, and I haven't successfully built the proper polite fiction. All I can think of is to be honest about the way I feel about you, and hope that you have the necessary tools to bring me crashing down to reality._

_Tell me to get over you. Throw some cold water on me (sorry!) and make me snap out of this. You won't let me down in letting me down, will you? You're so good at telling people exactly what they need to hear._

_I have to go. Soon my Chinese food will be here, and I will beg my fortune cookie for some kind of guidance, and it will disappoint me with a silly little proverb or Barnum generality. It WILL let me down, because no bakery ever turned a profit advising stupid publicans on how to manage their unrequited feelings for Catholic priests._

_I may be in love with you, but I know you can teach me how to give it up._

_Assumpta"_

His heart pounded as he scooped the pieces into his pocket with the hand not presently supporting an infant.

Glancing into the bar, he caught Assumpta turning to look back at him, but she was too busy with orders, and he with appeasing a restless Kieran.

* * *

Siobhan had waited for the perfect intersection of the gard's absence and the landlady's attention to make her inquiry.

"Would you tell us the standings?"

Assumpta smirked. "Living vicariously, still?" She pulled out the whiteboard. "Ante holds steady at twenty-five. Near everyone favours Father Clifford to cave in."

"Except you and Niamh," Siobhan observed.

"Well, I promised Kevin about his da, and Niamh's rather certain about Kathleen."

Siobhan's pokerface melted into a devilish grin. "Tell the punters to gather round."

Her own smile fading, Assumpta reached for the bell.


	11. Laetare Sunday part II

Siobhan lay a few notes on the bar.

"What're you doing?!" cried Brendan, but it was clear from his face that he knew full well. Did Assumpta detect a look of admiration?

"Taking your advice," Siobhan chirped - flushed with pride, or blushing? "Lodging a bet on Sunday."

"You won't be able to collect!" Padraig said.

"Will if I bet against meself!" said Siobhan.

"You can't do that!" Brian boomed. "Assumpta!"

"No rule said she couldn't," Michael said gently. "She could collect tomorrow unless someone else fell through right at the stroke of midnight."

"Are you sure Father Clifford can't stay the night here?" Donal blurted.

"Bog off," the publican dismissed him, too loudly.

Assumpta marked the betting board to a mixed chorus of laughter, applause, and complaints. She tried to appear furious at the vet's diabolical scheme, but the shocked expressions on some others' faces were too amusing to resist. She caught sight of Peter across the room, bouncing Kieran and beaming as well.

Now the boy's parents walked back in. Assumpta towelled off the wet dog, motioning for Peter to distract Ambrose as she broke the news to Niamh, and as Siobhan collected her ill-gotten gains.

Peter caught the message. Assumpta watched him lead Ambrose into the men's toilets, gesturing to Kieran as if to suggest the need of a change. The gard grabbed the bag of baby supplies and followed.

Back in the bar, Niamh ponied up and consoled herself with a peppermint. "Half through the season, anyway. Longer than I thought Kathleen would last."

"Season's still young," Siobhan said, lining her pocketbook.

"Oh, that woman'll hold it together through the Second Coming if she thinks the Church is looking," Padraig sighed.

"Thought she sang loudest when Father Mac _was_ looking," said Assumpta.

"We all thought for sure it'd be Father Clifford," said Liam, looking eerily insightful for the first time...well, ever.

The regulars resumed their awkward dance of quietly looking at the nearest boring thing.

Assumpta felt her blood run cold. "Well," she finally said. "We can see now you were up in the night, can't we?" She bowed into the kitchen to regain her composure. The kitchen didn't work; the bar was still pin-drop quiet, she could tell through the door. She slipped out the back into the rain.

Peter emerged into the pub again with the Egan boys - the younger now cleaner and drier, and the elder seeming more at ease than he had in some time. Noticing the publican was absent and the crowd suddenly much quieter, he merely nodded at them and stepped back outside. Whatever turn the discussion had just taken, he decided he didn't really care to know. He needed to get home, needed to find a place to hide the scraps burning a hole in his pocket...

Heading up the street, he glanced down the alley and saw she was propped against the side of the building, staring up into the downpour like a fool. He walked toward her, trying to think of a way to ask yet another question whose answer wasn't his to know.

She spoke first, not meeting his eyes. "Siobhan won the pool, if you were wondering."

"I thought she gave up gambling."

"Wagered against herself."

He smiled wryly. "Quite the evil mastermind."

"Yeah." She still wouldn't look at him.

"You should go inside," he muttered.

"In a minute."

"Are the regulars doing your head in?"

"_You_ might be." Ah, but now she looked in his eyes. "Heading home?"

"I ought to." He made no move to go.

"Okay." Neither did she.

"Assumpta, you'll freeze in this."

Her eyes narrowed. "Cold showers, right? Good for the soul?"

"I gave up..." he stopped himself, thinking of just how badly his resolve had slipped in the mornings since Michael gave that order. He felt his skin heat up again - a bit embarrassment, a bit fury, a bit desire.

_What are you doing?!_

_Give in. You need this._

He moved closer, fixed her gaze harder.

It was enough to break her. "I'm sorry," she said. "None of my business."

"Hasn't stopped anyone else," he said desperately, turning his eyes and then his shoulders away from her.

She clasped his wrist. "Wait."

They were both wet through by now. He wanted to put his coat on her, but she still had him by the hand, had her thumb against his pulse. She kept opening her mouth slightly, and then striking whatever it was she was about to say. He kept thinking of the letter, of both of them now knowing too much of the other's mind...

"I have to get back inside," she whispered.

"I miss you," he heard himself breathe back.

"Peter-"

_What do you want?_ he felt like asking. But he knew. What she wanted was in pieces in his pocket. Knowing this made resistance impossible.

He leaned in. "You gave up self-denial?"

"I thought so," she said.

"Prove it," he begged, lips close enough to brush her own.

She turned her head, reminding him that they stood in broad daylight (well, what daylight the storm allowed them) and anyone could pass by at any moment, unlikely though it seemed in this weather. The spell broke now.

"It's Sunday," she said lamely, retreating inside.

He headed for home, thoroughly drenched and utterly dizzy.

* * *

Assumpta took a tea towel to her hair and gave her makeup a quick retouch before stepping back into the bar. Both efforts seemed futile, but the customers didn't seem to notice. In fact, Niamh had taken the liberty of putting on the radio. The awkward silence of moments ago was already forgotten in a wash of music and craic. The victorious Siobhan appeared to have purchased a round for everyone, undeniably duplicitous yet still magnanimous to a fault.

The fact that the radio DJ had chosen this moment to play "Why Don't We Do it in the Road" seemed lost on everyone else. To the publican, it felt as if the events of the last few minutes were printed on her forehead.

"Niamh, do you mind?" Assumpta wailed. Her barmaid ignored this, instead making shameless eyes at Ambrose as she bit suggestively into a chocolate bar.

Assumpta remembered now the fortune cookie from the night before, as yet unopened under the bar. She tore into the cellophane and broke the hard, stale shell:

"Look for the dream that keeps coming back. It is your destiny."

_Whatever the hell that means,_ she thought.

* * *

This time, Peter was naked in the confessional, and Assumpta just barely visible on the other side. The panel between them was crumbling - no, it was made of paper, and she was peeling it away one bit at a time.

"Is it true?" he asked her.

"Is what true?"

"What you wrote. About me."

"Sure you've known how I felt all along."

He was stunned by this. "No."

"You had your suspicions." She tore off another strip of paper, and he could see she was naked as well. He felt a familiar strange pairing of impulses, to devour and protect her, both at once.

"Does it make any difference?" she said.

"Well, of course it makes a difference."

"Does it change what you'll do?"

He couldn't answer.

"Peter," she said, pulling at the edge of the last scrap of paper, "what are you giving up?"

"Snooping in rubbish bins."

She pressed against him. It was exquisite. It was agony. "Bit late for that. What are you giving up?"

"Cold showers."

"That's not a sacrifice. What are you giving up?"

"Hiding," he whispered. The walls of the box collapsed around them. Neither looked to see if anyone was watching them.

He awoke just as their mouths were about to meet. He rose at half-five, stuffed a few folded notes into his already-packed mite box, and indulged in an unrepentantly hot shower.


	12. Yet Another Week

Father Mac murdered another chewable antacid. His Grace's dinner invitation was by no means unwelcome, but Bishop Costello had a fondness for awkward silences and terrible restaurants.

"The Holy Mackerel" in Cilldargan was at least three kinds of terrible. It was borderline blasphemous in name alone, with the predictable yet offensive ichthys logo. It was nominally American in its approach, as evidenced by the name, the dreadful cowboy-themed staff uniforms, and the tendency to drown absolutely every menu item in alcohol, fat, or sugar. Finally, by apparent decree of the management, the place was addicted to background noise, with commercial radio blaring over the speakers at all times.

It only occurred to Frank now just which broadcast he might encounter: tonight was Tuesday.

Surely he couldn't be blamed for hearing it in these circumstances. Perhaps they could talk over it, he thought as he tucked into his drunken mussels. Immediately he learned that wasn't possible: he'd have a hell of a time just chewing this food before it got cold.

"And we're back with more of _The Pit,_" said the announcer.

The bishop looked toward the loudspeakers with a grin. "Love this show," he remarked between sips of Budweiser.

Frank forced a smile over his uncooperative mouthful.

"If you're only just joining us, my guest this evening is dream-interpretation expert Colleen Stack. We've already dissected the familiar symbolism of losing all your teeth; now 'Paul' is on the line from 'somewhere in County Wicklow' with another common theme. Paul, go ahead?"

"Thanks. Lately I'm having a recurring dream about nudity."

Frank froze in place.

"Your own nudity?" the woman asked.

"Mine and...someone else's," said the poorly-camouflaged voice of Peter Clifford.

"In public?"

"Sort of everywhere."

"What's your relationship to the other person?"

"That's a good question..."

Feeling his own blood boil, Frank checked his senior for signs of recognition. Bishop Costello was, as ever, infuriatingly inscrutable. He bore a look of ambiguous, calm reflection, as if he might be contemplating either Father Clifford's frailties or human nature itself.

The dream expert was on a roll. "You're giving me only something very basic to go on, Paul, but generally we think of nudity in a dream as a symbol for some kind of truth - either something hidden that needs to be revealed, or something already quite obvious that needs to be properly acknowledged, such as trying to be what you're not. Does that ring any bells in your situation?"

"Yes," the caller said, barely audibly.

"Whoever this person is, you need to come clean with him or her."

"You're right."

Frank's jaw was already exhausted from pulverising the rubbery bivalves. It dropped half-open with this.

The host chimed back in now. "Thanks for ringing us, Paul. Now we have Mike on the line, who says he keeps dreaming of waking up and going through his usual morning routine...only to find he's not woken up at all and he's late for work. Hello, Mike!"

The bishop finally set down his bottle. "How's the curate getting on these days, anyway?" His face gave no clue of whether he'd recognised the young priest's voice. The parish priest could think of no safe way to ask. He looked down at his plate as if for advice.

The remaining mussels were all shut tight.

* * *

Padraig scratched his bicep through his shirt sleeve for what must have been the twentieth time since his arrival at the pub Thursday evening.

"You all right?" Siobhan asked, glancing out the corner of her eye. Michael took sudden intense interest in his soup spoon.

"Fine," Padraig replied, indignant.

"Been at your arm all night," Brendan muttered.

"Spider bite," Padraig lied.

"Ah," said Brendan. "What kind?"

It was apparently too much scrutiny for the mechanic to bear. "I said get off my back!"

Michael handed Assumpta a few coins to set a glass of Powers before Padraig. "Betting pool's been won and lost, Padraig," said the doctor. "Might as well 'fess up."

Padraig sighed and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a square, putty-colour patch. Brendan nodded his approval, but Padraig shook his head.

"I'm a low-down cheat!" he wailed.

Niamh shook her head. "Look at this," she said, pulling a child's chocolate-flavour lip balm out of her pocket. "Ambrose likes it," she smiled devilishly.

Brendan made a face of mock-betrayal, but it quickly changed to a fond smile. "Think they make that stuff in roast beef flavour?"  
Siobhan made a face.

Assumpta found herself chuckling. "You're all unbelievable. Michael, have you...?"

The doctor was caught in a storm of microsleeps, nodding off every few seconds and then jerking upright again. He hadn't heard her.

She thought for a moment, then mixed a Black Russian.

"On the house, Doc. It's hardly any caffeine."

He accepted the cocktail without protest, looking partly revitalised after a few sips.

"Any other side effects besides the itch?" he asked Padraig.

"Nightmares, I reckon," Padraig grumbled. "Long one last night, felt like it lasted years. Assumpta married her ex, and then she got electrocuted to death, but all anyone wanted to do was eat; then Father Clifford ran away forever; then Niamh got a bad haircut and fell in love with some blithering arse; then Ambrose fell off a cliff, and - get this - I left town to quit drinkin'!"

Scattered chuckles greeted this absurdity.

"Are you sleeping with the patch on?" Michael asked.

Padraig looked ashamed. "Don't mean to, but you know how I love a kip."

"Right."

"Should've tuned in to _The Pit_ the other night," Brendan piped up. "Whole hour with a dream interpretation expert. Come to think of it, one caller sounded a bit like -"

"Hogwash," Siobhan interrupted. Michael looked shy again.

"You don't believe in it?" countered Brendan.

"Not when a man's taking transdermal nicotine replacement therapy, no."

Niamh nodded. "Dreams might mean something important once in a while, but that one just sounds like bad brain chemistry."

Assumpta thought of her fortune. Then she thought of a few other choice scraps of paper, and an unjustified panic rose in her chest.

"Sorry," she breathed, rushing into Accommodations.

A moment later, her voice echoed through the pub. "NIAMH!"

Niamh gave an apologetic shrug to the regulars and followed into the lounge.

"What?" she hissed.

Assumpta shook the rubbish bin. "Did you empty this?"

"Thought you'd want me to, before collection day. Why?"

"Nothing," Assumpta said too quickly. "Thanks."

Niamh shot a wary look, then turned on her heel, brown waves bouncing on her shoulders.

"Wait," Assumpta said.

"What?"

"When you took it out, did you...notice anything?"

Niamh's expression changed to a perplexed one. "Lots of people are throwing away the breakfast coupons."

Assumpta caught her breath. "Oh, too bad," she bluffed.

Niamh rolled her eyes. "If you want me, I'll be in the bar," she called over her shoulder.

"Joni Mitchell, was it?" Assumpta said to herself, thinking only one erstwhile regular would have appreciated the joke.

* * *

Peter peeled the moist receiver away from his ear. He'd largely tuned out Father Mac's dressing-down; something about consulting secular sources of personal guidance in a public manner, about proneness to ill advice and scrutiny in the parish. The curate had toyed with asking just what the Parish Priest was doing listening to _The Pit_ himself at that hour, but decided against it in the end.

Now it was late. He grabbed his keys.

His sixth church excursion marked as slippery a Lenten resolve as any - a mere late night drive-up visit, a clandestine pilgrimage in the cool fragrant dark. He crossed the courtyard with a boyish sense that he was courting disaster, and sat on a dew-misted bench near the statue of St. Amand.

_Patron of bartenders and innkeepers, _he thought. _Would Assumpta ever condescend to pray to you?_

He shook his head in response to his own wondering.

_Is this an intercession, then? Asking you to break her heart for me because I couldn't dream of it? Because I'd only get too close and want it for my own?_

**You're already too close. You already want it for your own**, he imagined a voice responding. **You'd do anything for it**.

_I know._

**Seems you've already made up your mind.**

_It's not that simple._

**It isn't so complex, either. You know what you could live without in the long run. You know what you couldn't.**

Peter shook his head again, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets against the damp chill of the air.

_What would people think?_

**Well. That's a very Father-MacAnally sort of way to view the matter. You must know a few are wondering already.**

_Joking and wondering are different things._

**So you tell yourself.**

_Now I know I'm imagining this._

**Look at you, man. You're even nervous thinking **_**I'm **_**aware of how you feel. Do you think you can pull a fast one on me?**

Peter got to his feet and shuffled back to his car.

_Fine. If you're really out there counselling me, give me a sign._

He turned the ignition. "The Sign" was just starting on the radio.

"Ace of Base. Very funny," Peter said aloud.

**Look at the tuner.**

It was a frequency he didn't recognise.

* * *

_Thanks if you're still along for the ride. I hope this chapter doesn't come off too heavy-handed. Please add a grain of salt to my depictions of spiritual or parapsychological matters, snotty remarks about the cuisine of my own homeland, and to my little thinly-veiled soapbox about certain things in the original narrative. _

_That said: penny for your thoughts, as always!_


	13. Fifth Sunday part I

Niamh would never be fully able to explain the sudden sense of urgency that came over her that Sunday morning. Perhaps it was in the lesson from the book of Isaiah:

_Do not remember the former things, or consider the things of old._  
_I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?_

She knew in all logic that this was simply the lectionary prescription for one of the readings today. Every third year, on the fifth Sunday in Lent, the same words would be heard from pulpits around the globe, familiar and reassuring, like clockwork.

Perhaps it was in the break of Father Clifford's voice when he said those words.

She counted back in her head. This was his third spring in the parish; the last time she'd heard this reading, it had been from his predecessor, the brief-serving Father Cahill, the one Father Mac liked to say had only come "for the suit." By the end of that liturgical year, Father Cahill's lack of energy and enthusiasm for his assignment had manifested themselves in numerous ways: first in a parade of painfully dull homilies; then in a series of missed appointments; and finally, in an exceptionally redundant letter announcing his transfer to a post in County Kerry, hastily carbon-copied to everyone on the membership register at St. Joseph's. (Come to think of it, Siobhan had won that bet as well.)

Father Cahill's voice had broken in much the same way as he read those two verses. In hindsight, it seemed all too obvious. This town never could hold them.

_It can't be happening again. It _better_ not be happening again! Not with him!_

But she couldn't shake the feeling that it _might_ be, and deeper down, she had more than an inkling of why. She would get furious about it later, would serve her punishments cold; she had other priorities now.

She squeezed her husband's knee to let him know a big idea was brewing. His pale blue eyes widened sharply. She nodded down to the sleeping infant in his arms.

"I think we need to hurry," she whispered.

She could tell from his face that he had no idea why, but he trusted her judgment. She sank into the reassurance of his trust like a warm bath.

* * *

Assumpta had never really made peace with the institution of Sunday.

In her childhood, it had meant rising early, even if unruly boarders had kept her awake all night. Like clockwork, her parents would argue whose job it was to take her to church, with her mother usually forfeiting the point and her father hanging back to watch the pub.

Mass was a train wreck all its own, with any of a dozen revolving-door priests doing his level best to bore, alienate, or blow sunshine up the arses of the congregation. A few babies would wail against the strain of Kathleen Hendley's organ playing. When Father Shannon delivered a caustic homily chastising the locals for their uncharacteristically small family sizes, the then-14-year-old Assumpta wondered if perhaps the sound of that organ was somehow bad enough to damage listeners' fertility. The resultant giggle fit earned her a severe punishment.

In later years, Sunday came to represent holding down the pub for her mother as her father languished in the bedroom, the cells of his pancreas growing out of control so suddenly and so completely. After his death, Maureen Fitzgerald gradually left off her own commitment to the Church, ultimately freeing her daughter to leave for college.

At college, Sunday ultimately meant something very different, yet remarkably consistent week to week: nursing mild hangovers in the private dorm room of Leo McGarvey. She felt always queasy and parched, waking in his old t-shirt to find him gone; but she felt so loved when he inevitably returned with greasy fast food and a hair of the dog. It was almost enough. She dreamt of staying in the city with him, becoming a stage actress as he broke scandalous news for some prestigious broadsheet.

She dreamt of learning to love him, too.

The bad news from home came the week before graduation, and Sunday once again came to mean running a pub for a dying parent. Indeed, now every day meant this, meant pulling pints for people who had known her as a child, meant following the recipes Maureen had taped to the kitchen cupboard, unspoken concessions to the fact that someday soon she'd be gone. Leo had offered to accompany Assumpta back to Ballykea, but his disdain for the bucolic ran so thickly obvious she couldn't let him...couldn't love him enough to make it worth his while.

After Maureen died, Sundays were the most jarring evidence of a new norm - eerie quiet before church let out, then deafening noise as the brunch crowd flooded in. So it continued the next couple of years. Then the arrival of a new curate changed Sunday again.

Peter's influence on the regulars and the tourists wasn't immediately obvious, but as weeks went on it seemed that good tips and pleasant attitudes went hand-in-hand with talk of an inspiring homily in a funny accent. His own visits after his work was over, well...she took pride in being the place he came to unwind. Putting Peter at ease was more fun than assuaging the flaring tempers of her parents or the recurrent sullenness of Leo. Peter after Mass reminded Assumpta of an athlete after a long football match or a strenuous workout - even if it had gone roughly, he had a radiance about him. His vocation obviously fulfilled him in an irreplaceable way.

What was Sunday now? Sunday was six days' worth of unallowable feelings bottled under pressure, letting off just a little steam each time. Sunday was the only time she saw him anymore, torture and annoyance and a certain forbidden elation every bit as addictive as her experimental college cocktails, but infinitely sweeter.

Sunday was deception and hypocrisy. Sunday as they now knew it could not be sustained. It had to stop. She would stop it today.

Last week had been too rainy for rational behaviour, their near-kiss in the alley an understandable effect of messy environs. Today was much better for self-control: brutally sunny but deceptively chilly, the perfect combination of harsh light and harsh cold. If he came in, fine. If they got alone - if something "almost happened" again - she had to squelch it. For his sake. He was a good priest. He needed the church and the church needed him, it was that simple.

It tore her heart out to think just how simple it was.

"Assumpta," came the familiar Mancunian voice.

"We're going to have to make you wear a bell," she sputtered, crimson-faced at the half-spilt coffee in her grip.

"Sorry!" He was already after cleaning it up.

"You don't have to do that," she muttered.

"Nonsense. I'd make a fine pub hand," he retorted.

She scolded herself for the urge to read into this.

"Father!" Niamh yelled, pulling an apron over her church clothes. "Ambrose and I have a question for you. Tried to catch you after Mass, but you seemed in such a hurry to get here..."

Assumpta felt a flush go up her neck.

Peter looked nervous. "Go ahead?"

"Would it be all right to have Kieran christened on Easter Sunday?"

Ambrose cut in now. "We know it's short notice, but it's always a nice Mass, and my mother will be visiting..." looking down at his son, he didn't notice the sour face Niamh pulled at this.

Panic gone from his face, the curate smiled broadly. "I can't think of a more fitting day to do it. We'll schedule a rehearsal soon as you've confirmed with your godparents."

Until now, Assumpta had been caught in bittersweet admiration of this man's devotion to the very faith she'd given up. Suddenly, this feeling gave way to another: the keen sense that a set of queenly brown eyes were beaming their twisted will onto her.

"Niamh..." she began, putting up a protesting hand.

"Oh, you had to know it'd be you! You were our bridesmaid!"

"That's totally different. Bridesmaids don't have to promise to keep the marriage faithful!"

Peter tried to conceal his amusement with a cough. Assumpta glared at him.

Niamh poured a cocktail of equal measures vodka and amaretto on the rocks. "A godmother for our godmother?" she cajoled.

"A lowball if I ever did see one," Assumpta conceded, downing the drink. The others mockingly cheered her surrender. Niamh kissed her cheek theatrically.

"You'll make a fine witness," Peter said as the fuss subsided. "You always do."

The strange, fond reverence in his eyes and his voice made her only more nervous. In only two weeks, for the first time in years, Sunday would mean church again - and this time, disdain for the priest would hardly be her problem.

"Oh, we'll talk later," she cautioned, her voice building like thunder.

His grin dissolved, quick as it had come on.


	14. Fifth Sunday part II

When he remained on his stool an hour later, she gave another rueful look, then departed into the kitchen - and, he could tell, out the back. He gave his pleasantries to the regulars and exited again out the front.

She was not leaning against the building this time. She was pacing back and forth in the street. The icy gusts attacked her hair; he tried not to notice how it went from dark to copper in the misleading sunlight, like ballpoint ink.

"Is it about the christening?" he tried, knowing well enough how much deeper it ran. She didn't look at him, only folded her arms and shook her head.

"I really shouldn't be doing this," she said, the wind stealing her volume.

"It's not just about faith, Assumpta. I've seen you with children. I can't think of anyone I would trust more. You'd make a wonderful m...godmother." He cursed his near slip and his word choice. It was the wrong way to say it - too intimate, too adoring. He tried to back off: "But if you really can't abide it...there's no point to a vow if your heart isn't in it."

_Bad thing worsened._ He hung his head and steeled himself for the damage.

She was silent. He looked up again. She was shivering.

"Are you cold?"

"Yeah. No."

He thought to challenge this, but changed his mind, simply removing his coat and holding it at her shoulders. She accepted the offer, put her arms into the sleeves; they hung well past the tips of her fingers. He couldn't help but think she looked both comically swallowed up and yet, too, quite at home in it.

Ridiculous. Beautiful. Devoured and protected, both at once.

Another brute gust whipped a lock of hair into her eyes. He reached out to tame it behind an ear, but she got there first. Her hand was out of its long wool tunnel now; she stuffed it reflexively into the coat's pocket.

Peter remembered what he'd felt there the night before, what he'd meant with every fibre of his being to lock away in a drawer or hide in a book.

_Oh, no._

Absently, she drew out a scrap of paper. She examined it briefly, then crumpled it in her palm. Horror and humiliation clouded her face and she marched down the side alley once more, wriggling her way out of the coat, shoving it into his grasp.

"'Sumpta, please wait!" he loped after her, dreading the litany of accusations she was surely about to recite, but knowing he deserved them all.

The pursuit continued back into the pub kitchen; he flung his inside-out coat on the back of a chair. As he finally caught her shoulder and she turned, the look on her face was not what he'd prepared for. No wrath, no pride, no steely resolve: only shame and heartache.

Her voice was small against the chatter from the next room. "Peter, this isn't your problem, all right? Please."

"Look at me."

She shook her head. He tipped her face up by the chin.

"Not your problem," she repeated, her eyes swimming and her voice weaker still.

"Yes it is," he whispered.

"What?"

"You had to know." He flattened a hand against her back, pulling her to him. "You said yourself everyone was joking."

"Joking about how it _looks_. What am I supposed to have known?"

"Why I've stayed away. How I feel about you." He held her against him. "I thought dogs on the street knew."

She took a moment to absorb this.

He felt her arms encircle him, felt her stroke his back. She met his eyes, rising on the balls of her feet to make up for the difference in their heights.

Was it really happening this time, at last?

"Customers!" they heard Brendan yell. Assumpta dropped back onto her heels.

"I have to go," she whispered. "They don't even know you're still here."

"Wait," he pleaded.

She looked up. "I shouldn't let you do this to yourself," she muttered, breaking away.

* * *

Tonight's dream had him back in the tasteless rope noose for the ill-conceived charity auction. Leave it to Brian Quigley and Father Mac to devise a fundraiser rooted in the mockery of human enslavement! Oh, and of course he was totally naked up on the scaffold, as his confessor paraded him in front of the village and the businessman made half-hearted attempts to sell him.

The crowd's reactions were a pot-pourri of apathy, amusement, and disgust, all launched from within the safety of their clothes. It became clear that no one cared to pay for him in his current state.

Father Mac was getting tired of pacing with the unwanted merchandise. "Call up the next one, Brian," he sighed. "No one wants him without the suit."

"Wait!" called a familiar voice. Peter saw a naked Assumpta elbow her way to the front of the shocked audience.

"Do we have a bid for the curate?" Quigley asked flatly.

"Twenty quid," the landlady answered, pulling a rolled-up note from behind her ear.

"Your funeral," Quigley said, accepting the money as Father Mac disdainfully handed the rope to the buyer.

Assumpta removed the noose and led him down the steps, through the crowd, and all the way to the riverbank. The sunlight bounced off the water, covering them both in luminous nets.

"Well," he said, "I suppose I'm all yours."

She smiled uncertainly but didn't answer.

"What do you want me to do, Assumpta?"

"I want you to decide what you're giving up."

"Leaving things in my pockets?" he tried to joke.

"Very funny."

"Fundraising?" he tried again.

She swatted him. "Be serious." Her playful slap made him too aware of being alive. "What are you giving up, Peter?"

"Being led," he whispered, realising.

"Prove it," she replied.

She waited for _him_ to kiss _her_, for _him_ to pull _her_ close to him.

Just as he reached for her, the dream dissolved against the ringing of the bedside telephone.


	15. Another Week Still

Peter looked at the clock as he picked up the handset. _Ten a.m.?!_

"This is Father Clifford," he burbled, marvelling at how long and deep he'd slept.

"Father, it's Bishop Costello. You've been on my mind lately; do you have a moment?"

* * *

The National School had offered at least one daily fish or vegetarian course to complement its meat offerings throughout Lent. Thoughtful enough, it didn't make it any easier for Mr. Kearney to ignore the corned beef and ham sandwiches, sausage rolls and lasagnes moving through the canteen in small grubby hands.

Just his luck that Niamh had taken a maternity leave from her services as a volunteer monitor, and this week was his turn to fill in for her. Just his luck that desperation would make this institutional spread start to look so...mouthwatering.

_God help me._

He felt limp, woozy even. Anaemia, surely? It was Monday. He'd had a hearty stew only last night at the pub. How on Earth did vegetarians do this?!

_Just the week ahead and Holy Week_, he thought. _Then a good fat pig, a big juicy Easter ham._

The guilty twinge that accompanied this thought caught him off guard. He knew the curate had had about enough of his self-flagellation about coveting streaky bacon. Any minute now, the young priest was bound to snap and impose Levitical dietary prohibitions on the schoolteacher, just as a lesson.

Peter seemed decidedly at the end of _some_ rope or other these days. Brendan could venture a guess at the nature of it, but speculating made him uncomfortable. Every priest in this town - in any town, in all of history - had surely wrestled demons. St. Joseph's tended to lose curates every few years, usually to other assignments. But most priests seemed only to get fed up with Ballykissangel, with its strange propensity to produce the lapsed, the unwed, and a curiously high ratio of socially-awkward only children. Priests of the traditional stripe felt ineffectual at the end of the day, as if for all their shepherding the town was becoming only less Catholic.

Brendan knew his friend Peter hardly gave a damn about full quivers of children, or pairing off the local spinsters and bachelors. His focus ran to the needy, the sick, the victims of circumstance.

Brendan was himself one of those despised bachelors, and he'd been known to enjoy a night in the company of a certain red-haired spinster. Peter hadn't condemned them when Brendan sought guidance on that first morning-after. And three of those awkward only-children Brendan had watched grow up, two of them from his own classroom, and the curate's particular fondness for those three hadn't escaped Brendan.

_One of them especially,_ he thought, impassively snagging a sprinting pupil by the back of his jumper. "Slow down!"

For the last three years it had been the proverbial elephant in the room. Everyone was aware of the friendship between the priest and the publican, but ignoring it was far easier than examining or defining it. How often in the past had the villagers merely shrugged at one "stunning" revelation or another? How often had they greeted these things with relief that it wasn't worse?

_Brian Quigley couldn't manage a business without his wife; well, she had always been the brains of the family, at least Niamh took after her. _

_Father Shannon detested children; well, at least he didn't like them too much. _

_Maureen Fitzgerald had a wandering eye; well, at least Assumpta had her father's nose._

Brendan absently caught a projectile breadcrust as it sailed past his head.

If Father Clifford dropped a bombshell of his own, the town would absorb the impact as it had always done. Spotty a churchgoer as he was, though, Brendan didn't like the idea of losing this one.

He sipped his Thermos of onion soup.

"New recipe," boasted one of the kitchen staff.

"That right?" Brendan asked. "It's very good."

"The supplier added beef stock," the cook said proudly.

Brendan forced a smile and nodded.

_Some battles are over before we even realise it._

* * *

"How was the market?" Kevin asked as his father got home.

Padraig made a face. "Eamonn Byrne was behind me in the queue. He smelt of bad cheese."

Kevin didn't look up from his homework. "He's always smelt of bad cheese. He never washes."

Padraig looked thoughtful. "That right?"

Kevin nodded, closing his book to help his father unload the groceries. As he put sausages in the fridge and cans in the pantry, he noticed Benson and Hedges were absent from the order once again. He smiled, connecting now just why his father's sense of smell was back from the dead.

"Da?"

"Um?"

"Proud of you."

His father nodded sheepishly.

* * *

Strolling back down the hill with Fionn on Friday morning, Assumpta passed a familiar red car at the side of the road.

She recognised the man working on it, much to her shame, by the rear part of him sticking out of it. Her own lingering sense of exposure tempted her to walk on by, but some other force within her overrode it.

"Battery corrosion again?" she called.

"Already checked that," Peter said, ducking as he backed out from under the bonnet. "Among other things. God only knows what it wants this time."

"You have to be somewhere?" she guessed.

"Carlow," he muttered.

"Peter, that's nearly two hours' drive from here! What business could you have all the way out in...?" Now her face fell. "Carlow. The bishop?"

He nodded.

"You in trouble?"

He gave a nervous look. "I don't know. He rang Monday morning and asked to see me."

"Right, no lookout of mine." She looked down in despair as Fionn relieved himself on the Fiesta's front tyre. Sorry, she mouthed.

He smiled sadly. "I'd say it deserves it."

"Look, what time do you need to be there?"

He checked his watch. "Just under two hours," he said weakly.

"Can I give you a lift? I mean, if it isn't prohibited..."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

"It's stupid. Forget it."

"Assumpta -"

"I, um...just wait a moment. I'll see if Niamh can watch the pub."

"Ambrose is on duty; who'll watch the baby?"

Assumpta shrugged. "Her father?"

"At this rate, they'll need a nanny."

"Do you want my help or not?"

* * *

The windows of the Renault gathered warmth like a greenhouse, a pleasant respite from the chilly wind that had made Peter's ears ache all morning.

"Niamh watching the pub, then?" he asked as he buckled in.

Assumpta shook her head dismissively. "Just closed it for the morning. She said she'd open us for the midday rush."

"What's on?"

"Tuna sandwiches and crisps, now."

He grimaced. "I'm sorry for the trouble."

She shrugged. "No big deal," she said softly.

"Yes, it is," he replied.

The silence persisted for several torturous miles. Finally she spoke: "Um. If you want radio, go ahead..."

He didn't, really. He wanted to talk about their admissions last Sunday, wanted to tell her just what today might bring. He couldn't, of course. And since they weren't about to fill the acoustic vacuum themselves, so he flicked on the dial. A familiar voice permeated the van.

"Join us Tuesday evening for _The Pit_, where we'll be speaking with job coach James McGinty. Whether you're asking your boss for a raise, or contemplating a major career change, he can answer-"

Peter jumped quickly to the next preset. Music. Badfinger. He'd take it.

"How long do you suppose you'll be in Costello's office?"

"I don't know." That much was true. Peter looked out the window, his cheeks hot at the sudden memory of a dream set in this very van. "You don't need to wait for me; is there a bus going back?"

"That's ridiculous."

The next twenty minutes were only white noise. Still, for all the embarrassment between them, all the uncertainty in the air, he found himself glad to be there. The warm upholstery and the familiar scent of the van were comforting; the hum of the engine reassured him like a purring cat. Tense as things were between them, he was also grateful Assumpta was at his side, at the wheel. He shut his eyes and tried to listen to her breathing above the other sounds, and soon this and the motion of the van lulled him to sleep.

He awoke a few miles outside Carlow, remembering a dream that put her in his arms, between soft white sheets, naked in a bed he didn't recognise. What had they said?

He wondered if he'd spoken in his sleep. He wondered if there was anything left for speaking to reveal.

He couldn't tell from the look on her face, couldn't think how to ask.

Good practise for the meeting ahead.

With this thought, he embarked on his seventh church visit: the Cathedral herself.

* * *

Assumpta dug an eleventh caramel out of the glovebox and stripped it of its foil vestments. Ninety minutes she had waited now, and Peter was still in some musty old cathedral office, talking to a short, dark, balding man who had once watched him almost kiss her.

They had now nearly kissed on three separate occasions, including that disastrous play rehearsal. He knew how she felt, he had _said..._

Had he confessed to Father Mac? Was he in there getting his marching orders, begging forgiveness, repenting of what he had told her? What his six-day avoidance of the pub couldn't quash on the seventh?

As he slept in the passenger seat, he had said three things, moments apart:

"Love."

"You."

"The priesthood."

Was he making his choice, then? Opting for the priesthood, once for all?

She cursed herself for ever entertaining the notion he might do otherwise. How horribly selfish! Now he was probably discussing another assignment, maybe Wexford Parish, maybe another diocese entirely, maybe out of the country, maybe home to England. She had wanted too much, he knew that plainly - he'd had it in his pocket - and now she would probably lose what little of him she had. The whole village would lose him. They'd blame her.

They'd be right to blame her.

She killed another caramel, wondering if this was how it worked for chain smokers.

_If only there were a patch to cure these stupid feelings._ She balled up the wrapper and pitched it at the windshield.

The rap on the passenger window nearly gave her a heart attack. She caught her breath before unlocking the door.

"How'd it go?" she managed, not sure she could handle the answer.

"Well as could be expected," he said, looking strangely calm.

"They're not shipping you back to England again?" she tried to sound lighthearted.

"No, no..." he met her eyes. Something was fighting from just behind his lips, but he wouldn't release it. "It's gonna be fine." He looked out the windshield as if to reassure himself of this.

She searched for an appropriate question to follow, a barometer for the status quo. "So, um, the christening. Rehearsal." God, that word "rehearsal"!

"Yes. As planned." He swallowed. "Almost exactly."

She turned the ignition, giving up any hope of clarity.

_Fine, _she thought spitefully. _Thy will be done. Whatever the hell it is._


	16. Palm Sunday

_Oh, boy. It's already Palm Sunday in most time zones, isn't it? Thanks again for all your feedback and follows! __Some of you others, I hope you'll chime in just to let us know you're still out there and all is well. (HappyTrottingElf, Mcbenzy, consider this a nudge.) _  


* * *

Brian scowled at the evergreen branch in his hand. _Never understood it. We have palm trees in Ireland._ He wanted to be golfing underneath one right now. Short of that, the least the Church could offer was a genuine palm frond.

He watched his grandson, drooling on Niamh's shoulder, gawking at the branch with his bulbous, temporarily-blue eyes. Only a week now till the big day.

He looked up at the curate, praying a whole verse of psalm, the congregation responding back. No palms, no cantor...

_Father Clifford had better not blow this._

Brian made a mental note to buy Father Mac a drink as soon as possible.

* * *

This time after Mass, Peter didn't rush down the hill the first chance he got. He put away his scarlet vestments, and then met the Egans back in the church.

"Thanks for agreeing to run through this a week ahead," he said.

"We knew Holy Week would be a hard time to attempt it," Ambrose acknowledged. "Thanks for helping us."

At five minutes past the appointed rehearsal time, he began to wonder if the godmother-to-be would show up. He excused himself for a moment, and, sure enough, found her pacing frantically in the church yard.

"You can do this," he sang under his breath.

She spun on her heel. "I'm hardly a good Catholic."

_Same could be said for me. _"But you've been confirmed!"

"Of course."

"You've taken communion!"

She scoffed. "Not recently."

"You believe in God and Jesus, and you renounce evil?"

She shifted her weight. "Don't press your luck."

"Good enough. C'mon, they're waiting."

"You people and your technicalities."

_Tell me about it. _"The sooner we get this rehearsal over with, the faster we can all go back to the pub for some pease porridge and fig bread."

Assumpta scowled at him. "Niamh told you the menu?"

"I asked."

She flushed as if he'd said he saw her in the nude. "It's not about you."

"I know."

But they both knew it was. She looked at him, begging wordlessly for an explanation of what kept happening.

_Soon I can tell you everything, _he thought. _Please just wait a little longer._

* * *

Siobhan took a moment to bask in the more-relaxed Sunday atmosphere of the pub. With the landlady and Niamh both at the christening rehearsal, it was down to the vet and her wingmen to keep an eye on the taps. She tried not to move too quickly through her complimentary pint of Harp.

The air at their end was fresher this week, as Padraig had stuck with his patches more and more faithfully. He and Niamh were getting good results from their sneaky addiction substitutes. Of course, others had fallen truly off the wagon; Michael was back to his daily coffee, and Brendan had dropped the ball on red meat without even meaning to.

She hoped her scheme had taken off a little of the pressure to perform. She hadn't originally dropped gambling with an eye to winning the pool, planning in fact to last straight through the season. Yet, as the days wore on, her friends' irritability had prompted her to take drastic measures. She always knew the emergency valve existed, but never thought she might pull it, let alone so soon.

Two weeks after the victory, another dilemma had her attention. This one was small, furry, and had been ditched on her doorstep in a dirty Kennel Cab the night before, one note attached: "Sorry!"

As with unwanted babies at the curate's house, it wasn't unheard-of for locals to abandon pets at the residence of the town vet. Such had even been the provenance of Master Fionn Fitzgerald some years back. Luckily, the newly-orphaned young publican had reasoned that a dog might provide good security and companionship - important things for a young woman living alone and running a business. So it was that one motherless child took another under her wing.

But a red setter puppy would always be easier to home than an adult black cat. Siobhan didn't like asking people to take on cats; the ones who hated them would always go on for miles about why, and the allergic ones would react as if to a death threat. This cat had the added liability of superstition - an unfortunate thing, because he was in good health, housebroken, and possessed of a mellow, affable temperament.

She would sterilise him on Tuesday, she decided, and begin her search soon as he recovered.

As it stood, he was living in her bathroom, a towel to sleep on, kibble and water to his heart's content, and a litter pan at the opposite corner. She had thought briefly of naming him Lazarus, as he was found on Lazarus Saturday, but it seemed like tempting fate somehow. No. For now, she would call him Joe, for the patron of the local church - the saint whose feast day always fell in Lent, and who thus never got his rightful fanfare.

* * *

Assumpta tried to delay setting Peter's pease porridge before him, to diminish the approval this gesture might seem to confer. First she tried to empty Padraig's usual ashtray, but she was astonished to find it pristine and empty. Next she tried to interest Fionn in a walk, only to hear the vet had done this while she was out. Finally, she checked all the barrels to see if any might go empty soon, only to learn Niamh had changed them out the day before.

She begrudgingly placed the dish on the bar. His green eyes were still too grateful.

"Stop it," she hissed.

"Stop what?!"

"Stop...looking like that."

"What? How'm I looking?" Well, now he looked genuinely perplexed.

Assumpta moved for the kitchen door, then reconsidered. _He's expecting me to slip out the back so he can walk out the front, and then we can dance on the knife edge for another five excruciating minutes. The hell with that!_

Peter dunked his bread slice into his pudding, an experiment. A foolish one, by his reaction. A rush of brisk air and a flood of muted sunlight alerted them to two new arrivals: Brian Quigley and Father MacAnally. Assumpta watched Peter subconsciously move his hand to his neck, checking if his collar was still in place. Siobhan seemed to notice this as well, but she found it worth a smile for some reason.

Assumpta poured top-shelf whiskeys for the two men who called seemingly every shot in town, and warily exchanged them for Brian's money. He flashed a self-satisfied smirk as he carried them back to their table, brutally out of earshot.

Peter's eyes moved from his boss to his porridge and back again.

Siobhan didn't miss this either. "Oh, stick around, Father," she coaxed.

"It's no secret you come here," Padraig added.

"Not helpful," muttered Brendan.

Peter turned nervously back to his bowl. Behind him, Assumpta saw the parish priest and the businessman taking turns glancing his way. She felt a touch on her elbow and turned to see Niamh staring daggers at her father.

"Don't worry," whispered Niamh.

"What's to worry about?" bluffed Assumpta.

Niamh smirked, turning to make sure the curate was listening. "Exactly."

* * *

Assumpta locked the till and pocketed the key. "Last orders were half an hour ago."

Peter tapped his empty glass. "And I haven't ordered anything since." He ignored the publican's overwrought gesture of looking about the otherwise-empty pub. It was a hint she didn't mean. He knew it. She knew he knew.

What she didn't know, he knew she ought to, but he was unsure he'd had enough drink to tell her.

"Do you need help cleaning up?"

"What if you stay past midnight? Won't you turn into a pumpkin?"

"If I do, you can make potage of me for tomorrow."

"Then they'd all blame me for taking away their priest," she quipped.

His heart and lungs took a moment to regain their rhythms.

"Sorry," she muttered. "That was..."

"No..."

"Stupid."

"It really wasn't." He cursed himself. _Tell her. Tell her what you've done, what's about to happen._

He couldn't.

After allowing herself a few glances, ones she couldn't know were interspersed with his own glances back, Assumpta exhaled softly and loaded a tray with dirty glasses. Peter collected a few coasters and serviettes and followed her into the kitchen.

"You don't have to do that," she called from the sink. "Any minute now, it'll officially be Monday."

He threw the linens in a hamper, stacked the coasters on the table. "Hours till sunrise, though. You know, my people and our technicalities..." his voice lost strength, like a paintbrush running dry in mid-stroke.

"Wouldn't that really mean Sunday's been over since dusk?" she looked over her shoulder at him.

"Correct. I've already fallen from grace." His voice was a weak shadow, but his eyes were too bright. He came up close, tea towel in hand.

She shivered, turning away again. "Well, I won't tell if you don't," she said, aiming for glibness, decidedly missing.

The conversation now yielded to the sound of running water and the occasional clang of a pan or the squeak of a glass. The backdrop of these mundane noises was a comforting buffer, more forgiving than the stone silence of an empty church. Unease left her until she realised she had passed him the last dish to dry. She towelled off her hands and rolled the sleeves of her jumper back down, reaching for the pump dispenser next to the soap.

She had pressed the actuator too enthusiastically. She had a veritable ocean of hand cream in her palm. She tried spreading it to her other hand, tried saturating both, but it was still far too much.

She looked up at the man nervously drying his hands beside her, and nervously proffered her surplus.

He gave a shy chuckle at her predicament, taking her hands between his own. She felt the movement and his own body heat warming the lotion as he massaged it in, an exquisitely slippery caress of fingertips and thumbs and wrists. She wondered if he could feel her pulse quickening as he did this.

Finally, the two sets of hands had managed to drink in their fill of the stuff, but he still didn't let go. His grin faded to a look of solemnity and he brought both her hands up to his face, kissing each one lightly as he could.

She thought right away of what he was permitted to kiss, what he had likely kissed in recent years. Kieran's forehead, the bishop's ring, a crucifix? This surely wasn't quite licit.

Already fallen, she thought, feeling her mouth drop slightly open, as if by instinct. Already...

Suddenly, they were in the middle of it.

The first real, steady contact between their mouths registered in distant parts of her body, making them clamour for his touch as well. She tried to telegraph this urgency, clutching at his shoulders, pulling at his tongue with her lips, aching to receive him in a more consummate way.

Scratching the itch served only to make it return threefold. She arched into him now, felt just how strong his own desire was, stoking her own hunger even more. Noting how expertly his hand navigated her shape, she began an exploration of her own. His gasp broke the kiss.

"I give up," she panted, her lips sweeping his ear. "I'm not going to be the one to stop this."

"Neither will I," he responded.

"I'll do it," came a cool voice from the door, just as they felt the gust of night air that might otherwise have warned them.

* * *

_Another nod to Margaux Chutney there; I'm sure it was obvious, as you're all no doubt hooked on "The Holiday" just as I am. :)  
_

_Holy Week threatens to outpace me, but I won't go down without a fight. I'll do my best to get the next installment up soon._


	17. Monday and Tuesday in Holy Week

_LMS5XP, if the guesses in the reviews had been a gambling pool, you'd have won. Well done!_

* * *

"Talk about your safe bets," Niamh said smoothly as the red-faced pair shook apart. "Did you never think to latch the door? I could've been a burglar! Or a journalist." She latched it now.

Assumpta folded her arms, gripping an elbow, covering her face with her fingers. "Niamh..." she pleaded into her own hand.

Niamh put up a finger to silence her. "You can save the not-how-it-looks speech. I already knew."

Peter's eyes were wide with alarm, his cheeks hot with embarrassment. "Knew what? We hadn't..."

"Please. Why do you think I booked the christening so soon? You've been running down the clock, everyone knows."

"What?!" Peter again reached for his collar, as if it might have disintegrated in the last several minutes.

"All right, no one _knows_," Niamh conceded. "But everyone suspects _something._" She looked back and forth from one of them to the other. "Father? A word?"

"What're you doing here?" asked Assumpta.

Niamh marched to the coat hook and fished her chocolate lip balm out of an apron pocket. "Forestalling temptation. You might try it sometime." With a blistering look, she led Peter out the door.

Assumpta watched them go, then shakily moved to the pub and poured herself a generous measure of brandy. Sipping it, she contemplated the potential merits of an ice-cold shower.

She decided against it.

* * *

Peter's head was still spinning from a thorough interrogation as Niamh examined the mite box on his kitchen table. "I am right, then?" she asked, her eyes like skewers.

Peter swallowed. "You're not wrong."

"Does Assumpta know?"

He inhaled heavily. "I don't think so."

"But you'll make your announcement Sunday morning."

He paced the tile floor. "I've been trying to decide how best to-"

"It wasn't a question."

Peter shivered. She was so like her father.

"You will," she reaffirmed.

"I understand if you'd rather I didn't-"

"Oh, nothing in the world will spoil this christening. You can be sure of it. You'll do it yourself. Make your announcement. Not a word before then to my father, and as few as you can to Father Mac; I'll do what I can to keep them in the dark." She put on her coat. "Oh, and for the love of God, keep your distance from Assumpta in the meantime."

He nodded, wondering when it was he'd begun to answer to Niamh Egan.

"Better get home, before Ambrose wakes and starts to wonder where I've gone. See you at church," she said.

It sounded like an order.

* * *

Peter had a different dream that night, a dream that his kiss with Assumpta continued uninterrupted. Beneath their feet, the pub transformed into that same unfamiliar bedroom he'd dreamt before.

This time she didn't ask what he was giving up. Maybe she knew, now that he knew. This time they were fully-dressed at the outset, carefully undressing each other a little at a time. This time, nothing interfered; they made tearful, wordless love; he tried to remember every second of it.

Afterward, they lay together in the same brushed cotton sheets; she begged him to stay with her forever. He had only to tell her what was coming.

He couldn't make a sound.

He awoke with the dawn.

* * *

Gard Egan had an uneasy feeling about the red coupe ahead of him on the bridge. It looked unfamiliar, certainly not someone from in town. As he closed in, he noticed the sticker from a hired car company in the rear window, and he clocked the speed at considerably _under _ the limit. _I'll give the usual tourist warning, _he thought,signalling the driver to pull over. The driver complied, slow at this as well.

He approached the darkly-tinted driver window with his usual due caution. It rolled down to reveal a familiar pursed mouth.

He smiled from the cheeks down. "Mother! Aren't you early?"

* * *

"Mr. Kearney?"

The Lanigan girl's tiny hand shot above her flaxen plaits, almost as an afterthought.

"Yes, Caitriona?"

"Why is it passion when Jesus dies on the cross, but also passion when two people fall in love?"

A predictable titter arose from her classmates. Triona had a way of bringing up things her peers were too proud to ask; she had once brought in her mother's fitness magazine and asked how many calories were in a "bogey." She was an odd duck to be sure, no sense of propriety, no filter between her brain and her shrill voice.

Naturally, Brendan had a bit of a soft spot for her. "That's a great question. Do you have any guesses before I explain?"

Triona gnawed on her pencil for a moment. "Is it sort of like how a stool is both a tall chair and also a stinky-?"

More laughter from her classmates. Brendan had enough trouble keeping a straight face of his own. "All right, all right," he grumbled, "simmer down." He sat on the front edge of his desk, wringing his hands a little. "Now, you all remember how in English, we get all our words from lots of other languages?"

A few small heads nodded at this.

"A lot of them, we get from Latin. And passion is one of those words. It comes from a Latin word that means _to suffer._ So Jesus' being put to death on the cross is that original meaning: suffering. You know the word _compassion?_"

More nodding now.

"Well, _cum _is Latin for _with. _Compassion means _suffering with._ If a schoolmate falls and drops her tray in the canteen, even though the pain's not yours, you suffer with her, you're sorry it happened." A smattering of chuckles suggested the need for a deeper example. "Fine, forget that. If you feel for what people are going through in the North, even though they're a long ways away and they might not believe the same as you, then you have compassion for them. When someone hurts them, it hurts in your heart as well."

"But when you're in love, you're supposed to be happy," said Ned Brady, much to the teasing amusement of his comrades. His prominent ears glowed red at the sound of their laughter.

"Ah," said the teacher. "But you're not always. You've heard of being _lovesick, _right? You might even be happy in love, but you're not necessarily comfortable. You lose sleep, you get butterflies in your belly, you wonder what people might say about you, it's all you think about. And," he added, trying to judge with care the line between teaching and preaching, "if you love someone, truly, you'd do anything for them, right? You'd suffer for them if you had to."

Small lights went on in their eyes now. Caitriona Lanigan beamed as if she'd schooled them all herself.

Brendan found himself thinking about Jesus, but also about Siobhan, and about Peter, and Assumpta. It made him uneasy; he longed for a subject change.

He rose from his perch. "Now, if we're all reasonably comfortable with _this_, let's get back to the maths. Okay?"

* * *

_And now we all know why I don't often try to write adorable children. Feedback always adored; more to follow soon!_


	18. Spy Wednesday

Niamh remembered Wednesday morning that she'd been meaning to buy a flask. Something dainty, ladylike, understated - maybe enamelled, maybe in her favourite ice blue. It was a desire she tended to forget until Imelda visited.

Niamh felt it strong as ever today. Today, in a prime example of Ambrose's good intentions tending a garden path to Hell, Niamh and Imelda were on a shopping pilgrimage to Cilldargan. Niamh had protested about staying back with a fussy Kieran, only for her father to volunteer an afternoon of babysitting. Niamh had protested about not having a car, only for Ambrose to remind her that Imelda had hired a shiny red instrument of death and destruction. Niamh had almost said it was silly to buy a new dress until her weight stabilised, but, intuiting Imelda's response to this, she thought better of it.

Now, after two near-misses with pedestrians and one with a bus, they were in the shopping centre carpark, and the younger woman would have killed for a nip of brandy.

They wound their way through the department store, rounding circular metal racks - the kind Niamh would hide from her mother in when she was a child. Had it really been seven years now? Mammy would have known how to quiet Imelda with grace, how to arrest with one look her mind-numbing recaps of TV programmes no sane person would watch.

Niamh pushed past another broomstick-skirted monstrosity, about to give up, when she saw it: a flattering silhouette, inviting texture, princess seams, and modest enough for Sunday, without being dowdy. It was dainty, ladylike, understated, and ice blue. It looked like it might fit perfectly; she lifted it off the rack.

"I'll be back in a moment," she told her mother-in-law, beelining for the change room.

"Hold on, dear," Imelda chirped, holding up a mustard-yellow knit blob, four sizes larger. "Don't you think you'd be more comfortable in something like this?"

_Only as my shroud! _Niamh clenched her teeth behind a taut smile, and took the hanger. "I'll give it a try."

* * *

Kathleen rang up Siobhan's order, hoping as could close soon. "Didn't know you'd taken in a cat," the shopkeeper commented as she bagged the cans of wet food.

"Haven't really," said Siobhan. "Only fostering for now."

"Another doorstep foundling?" Kathleen guessed.

"Correct. Know anyone in the market for a better mousetrap?"

Kathleen made a nervous face. "Can't say as I'd know."

"Not a cat-lover, so?"

Kathleen's eyes darted, and she leaned in for a whisper. "They terrify me," she confided.

The greeting head of Brendan Kearney peeked around a corner display, but he said nothing. Kathleen sighed and glanced at the clock.

Siobhan brightened at the sight of the teacher. "What about you, Brendan? Any interest in a little live-in pest control?"

"Been a long time since I've had a cat, but I'd be happy to meet him. All the literary greats kept cats," he mused.

Kathleen glanced at the clock again.

Siobhan beckoned Brendan closer with a nod of her head. "He's mostly slept off the neuter drugs. Could come meet him." She dropped her voice. "Spend a night if you wish."

Kathleen demolished a toffee. _Just a few more days,_ she told herself. _Just a few more days._

After the last two dawdling customers made their exit, the shopkeeper stepped out into the fading light to retrieve the chalkboard sale sign from the walkway. Across the street she saw the publican rolling out an empty barrel, and the curate passing by, pausing to assist.

"Bound for Tenebrae?" she asked, breathless.

"Won't you join us?"

"Cold day in Hell. Does anyone ever go?"

"Fair point. Can't fault a bloke for trying."

"Look, we need to..." she looked behind her for signs of emerging pub guests. "Peter, we need to talk about what keeps happening."

"I know," he said uneasily. "Soon. I promise."

"But not before Easter," she returned, darkly.

He looked at the ground.

"Right," she snapped. "See you at the christening."

Kathleen reached into her dress pocket, but the last toffee was already gone.

_Someone has to tell Father MacAnally._

She locked the store and headed uphill for Tenebrae.

* * *

Trying not to speculate on the particulars of his two friends' late-night rendezvous, Doc Ryan acknowledged Siobhan and Brendan as he approached the front porch. The latter looked, in the weak porchlight, something like a cross between a scarecrow and a blowfish. It wasn't the worst allergic reaction he'd seen in his career, but an impressive inflammatory response no less.

"Cat's still safe inside?" he asked. The vet nodded.

Brendan made an indignant noise. "You make it sound like I'm the one who made him break into hives."

"Gave him the antihistamine as you indicated, doctor," Siobhan said.

"Looks to be kicking in. I'll hang around a while; if you have any trouble breathing I'll inject you with the epinephrine."

"I don't understand," Brendan gasped, still pink and hot to the touch near his eyes and nose. "Never had that sort of trouble with a cat before."

Siobhan stepped out onto the porch now, bearing water for the patient and instant coffee for the doctor. "Every animal's dander is a little different," she said.

Michael nodded as he took the mug. "And allergies can develop late in the game. I had a patient go anaphylactic on shellfish, out of the blue, at age forty."

"Wish I could keep him," Brendan sighed. "Lovely cat."

"So it goes," said Siobhan, patting his hand.


	19. Holy Thursday

_Still playing beat-the-clock best I can, at least against my own clock. (Mountain Daylight Time, if you wondered.) Shooting for briefer, more-frequent updates as Holy Week continues. I swear there's a point to all these non-P&A scenes! All right, enough blather. Best get this posted before the husband napping beside me asks what I'm up to._

* * *

Niamh arrived at the pub Thursday evening with an attractive paper shopping bag on her forearm.

Assumpta blinked. "You're not scheduled."

"I'm not reporting for duty." Niamh pulled a half-dozen bottles of nail polish out of the bag. "Which do you like?"

"I don't know! The dark red? What is this? I thought you were cross with me."

Niamh ignored this. "Do you want to do pedicures?"

"What?! Why...? I have a pub to run."

"Oh, close for an hour! Everyone's at Mass of the Lord's Supper anyway."

Assumpta cast a dubious look. "Not you?"

"With Imelda attending? Are you kidding?" Niamh asked, as if it should be obvious.

"Niamh, this seems oddly specific. Why toenails?"

"Because it's been a long time since I could reach mine, and because I need to get away from Ambrose's mother before I stab her in the eye. Besides, gives us a chance to talk." This she punctuated with another pointed look. "So," she pressed, "dark red, is it?"

Assumpta didn't quite trust this whim, but she was grateful enough that her friend was even speaking to her after the events of Sunday night. "Fine."

Niamh cleared her throat, putting up the "OPENING AGAIN AT" sign with the adjustable clock display. "Shall I latch the door?"

Assumpta glowered. "Yeah, yeah, yeah."

* * *

Imelda Egan felt an annoying squish in the toes of her pumps. What good was the foot-washing if the drying was slapdash? Had she foregone control-top tights for _this_?

She watched the young, weird, English curate consecrate the oil of the catechumens, and then the chrism that would anoint her grandson's head in just a few short days. How could Kieran's own mother skip Holy Thursday? She of all people should be here!

Lately it seemed all Niamh cared to do was pump an obscene amount of breast milk, dump the canister and the baby in someone else's hands, and rush off to the pub. She didn't know how good she had it, with Ambrose alive and able-bodied to serve as a breadwinner. Imelda could tell her stories about just how old the rat race got when it wasn't a frivolity anymore.

Father What's-his-name blessed the bread and wine, now, sparking a thought:

_Gifts!_

Perhaps for a christening gift, what Kieran really needed was a mother figure.

_That's it! Brilliant!_

Inspiration had struck. Imelda glanced at Brian, whose ears immediately moved backward like a spooked cat's.

* * *

Assumpta only realised what Niamh was up to as she lowered her feet into the soapy water.

"Oh, you are so sneaky!" she hissed.

"You're one to talk," Niamh said, mock-sweetly. "Now while you're soaking, towel me off." She pulled her own pink feet out of the tub, presenting them. Assumpta rolled her eyes and swaddled Niamh's feet in plush white terry.

"So that's what this was all about? Tricking me into your perverted ritual?"

Niamh sneered and grabbed the bottle of basecoat, inverting it and rolling it between her palms. "Helps me remember not to cast stones."

"Oh, your humility's charming," snorted Assumpta, inwardly glad her friend was speaking to her at all.

Niamh wedged the spatulate foam dividers between her toes and unscrewed the brush cap, reaching forward as she drew her knee to her chest...

...and squealed in agony.

"Little tender?" Assumpta guessed, wincing in compassion.

"Messy, more like," Niamh said, frowning at the new wet spots on her blouse.

"Thought you'd been pumping?"

"I have. I'm a bloody decorative fountain. I'm Eamonn's entire dairy farm."

"Ah." Assumpta now felt unqualified to empathise. "Well, you want to borrow something of mine while it dries?"

Niamh snorted. "Doubt anything would fit."

"Nonsense. Still have all my oversize flannels from a few years back." This earned a death glare, which Assumpta dismissed. "I only mean you're well-endowed. Be right back."

* * *

Kathleen departed St. Joseph's in reflective silence, her feet still chilly, the taste of the wine and wafer still strong on her tongue.

_What would You have me do? _she thought. _Wasn't once enough? _

_How can I bring this up to _him?!

She had never been quite sure of the rightness of her motivation back then. The voice on one shoulder said it had to be done for the sake of Father Mac's vocation, and of the parish itself. The voice on the other shoulder seemed petty, almost jealous, and utterly unforgivable the first time she heard it.

_Why should he want Eileen, when I'm the one he confides in? When he's always making excuses to drop by the family store and talk to me?!_

She had told herself it was the first voice, the more noble one, that ultimately prompted her to alert Frank's - _Father MacAnally's_ superiors of his dalliances. She had told herself it was not her fault when Eileen left town, puffy around the eyes and wearing dumpy clothes over her changing figure. She had told herself that her own foolish attraction was a trick of the light, a thing she only even noticed following one vivid, unfortunate dream.

And all these later, she reassured herself that it had long since faded, that it wasn't the reason she had turned down every other prospect over the years...and that it didn't matter anyway. Everyone knew temptation; she had resisted it. Or would have done, given the choice. Surely.

Surely.

To think she had wrestled the last three years with the notion of confessing it to Father Clifford - that she once came between two people in love. Was she really about to do it again, by sharing her mind with the man whose affair she had thwarted all those years ago?

Would he realise now just what had happened in their youth?

* * *

Leaning back on the armrest of the kitchen sofa, Niamh watched her friend gently stroke Sunset Pearl onto her last bare toenail. She gently lifted her feet off Assumpta's lap.

"Looks good, thanks."

"So's the shirt. Keep it if you want," said the publican.

"We'll see if my clothes dry before my feet do. Don't imagine you want me tottering around the place braless when you reopen."

Assumpta grinned. "Not unless we can charge the customers extra."

Niamh snorted. She indicated Assumpta's feet. "Shall we do yours?"

"Is there time?"

Niamh checked the clock. "Not really."

Assumpta smiled wryly. "Just as well. Hadn't planned to show them off anytime soon."

Niamh fixed her with a challenging stare.

"Oh, don't."

"After what I walked in on the other night? You honestly expect me to believe-?"

"Yes! I do expect!" Assumpta interrupted. She rose from the sofa now, checking the progress of the nursing bra that hung above the sink. Half-dry. "Nothing had happened. Niamh, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but..." she knew there was no good argument. She turned over her shoulder, meeting her friend's eyes: "They're sending him away again, aren't they? For real this time?"

Niamh opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by the knock at the pub door.

"Look, forget it." Assumpta went to reopen the bar, leaving Niamh less than presentable, her feet not quite safe to walk. She sat back again in a cloud of nail polish fumes, realising for the first time the depth of what her friend must be going through.

* * *

_I'm dying to know what you think of my treatment of Kathleen, and whatever else you think! More to follow soon.  
_


	20. Good Friday

_A few shout-outs to start this chapter off. First,** singtomemymeadow**, I totally agree about Brendan and Siobhan. If they'd had only one night together, then it took an awfully long time for her to realise she was pregnant, something like a year! And that only makes sense if she's some sort of space alien. (If this inspires any science-fiction Ballykea stories among the readership, I salute you. As for me, I think the affair ran deeper.) _

_Next, **Alexiah Rose**: in your wonderful "Trinity," you made reference to Assumpta's mother being from Belfast. I don't recall if this was canon or if it was a development of your own; if it's the latter, I commend you, because when I read that bit, I thought, "This could make lots of sense." Whatever the case, I've taken the notion and run with it in this chapter. If it did originate with you, I hope you don't mind!_

* * *

Siobhan had taken a certain twisted glee in this morning's shopping order, a certain thrill in watching horror cross Kathleen's face like a storm cloud. Cat litter, she now knew, was frightening enough for the poor shopkeeper, but nothing would compare with her priceless expression as she priced the small white rectangular box.

Focussing on this helped Siobhan make the drive home without going mad.

Given her cycles' irregularity in recent years, she had thought that her last period - now six or seven weeks gone - had been exactly that. She had thought her extra sleepiness had been another sign of menopause. She had chalked up her appetite changes to same.

The vomiting yesterday morning, she dismissed as some karmic fallout of the previous night's irresponsible meal.

When it returned this morning, though...

She was grateful that Joe the cat was her only witness as she retched in the bathroom, grateful that his presence had precluded certain others from staying over and waking to the sound of it.

Returning to that bathroom now, she again appreciated the animal's quiet company. Seeing her lift the lid, he positioned himself in his own toilet.

"Solidarity, then? Thanks for that. Funny, only days ago it was your fertility I was worried about," she mused.

The minutes crept by. "What do you think, Joey? Where's the smart money?" The cat blinked at her, as if even he knew her one-sided conversation meant nervousness.

She looked at the clock, then at the tester. With three minutes to go, the results were already unmistakable.

"Well," her voice shook and her eyes stung. "Guess we'd better find someone new to scoop your litter."

The cat jumped up onto the vanity and kicked the tester onto the floor. Siobhan nodded her agreement.

* * *

Peter had watched the Altar Guild as they stripped their jurisdiction bare of any adornment. He had gone through the motions of the Three Hours' Agony, had meditated on the Seven Sayings. He had fasted and prayed and emptied the fonts.

He could think of nothing he was supposed to be thinking of. He could only think of her.

Soon he would process in silence, would prostrate himself on the floor of St. Joseph's. He would pray with his congregation for every kind of people in the world. He would stare blankly as Mrs. McMullen deliberately queued up last to venerate the cross in a melodramatic display of kisses and sobs.

None of it would stay with him. Not like it should. He would want it to, would pray for the numbness to leave him and hand him over to the grief and contrition the day demanded.

In the end, though, he would be able to concentrate on nothing but his own thirst, the infinitesimal passion of a man, which was nothing in the shadow of a perfect sacrifice for the sins of the world.

In a rare moment truly alone, he took to his knees.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I failed You again. I still always fail You."

His throat was dry, his mouth mossy, his stomach growling and his head light.

"Please forgive me. This is why I have to go."

If there was a response to comfort or reassure him, he couldn't hear it.

_Perhaps that _is _my answer._

* * *

The predictable fast-day supper rush was underway at Fitzgerald's. The pub television, tuned to RTÉ News, was no doubt a draw in its own right. Mouths not silenced by bites of beer-battered fish were no doubt subdued by the voice from the set:

"The end, when it came, came quickly as the final pieces were put into place."

Ambrose's fingers seemed to twitch at this wording. How like his boyhood self he still was.

Thinking of their youth reminded Assumpta of her parents. Assumpta found herself wondering what they might have thought of it all, this hopeful breakthrough, this optimistic promise of a gradual slide towards unity.

She thought of their marriage, of her mother's lifelong struggle to reconcile her own heritage with life in the Republic and the Catholic Church. The conversion and migration had never quite suited Maureen - and yet, Ballykea and St. Joseph's had ultimately held her closer than they ever held the man for whom she had given up everything.

How close the Fitzgeralds held one another was debatable even now.

Assumpta had grown up hearing only the whirlwind-courtship, star-crossed-lovers version of the story, but seeing only the grudge-bearing and resentment of two people who both thought they'd compromised too much for too little. Her parents' two sets of accounts and their two sets of actions took the shape of four conflicting gospels, all claiming to bear the true last word.

She had never liked that about Good Friday, the paradox of it. Even its very name seemed hypocritical. She remembered asking Brendan to explain it - no, _demanding_ that he explain it - when she was his student. She looked at him now, sipping his Guinness, thoughtful and hopeful and sceptical all at once as he took in the words of another Brendan, reporting the news. She wanted him to explain it again, why faith and politics and love were always mired in contradictions.

Siobhan entered quietly now and took a seat beside Brendan. She looked exhausted, rattled.

"Harp for you?" the publican guessed.

Siobhan shook her head. "Tipperary Water, please."

Assumpta shrugged and served the drink.

Perhaps it was best that Peter was probably leaving town; perhaps this ache was better than what might await her if she tried, like her father, to contain a heart that she would never really have claim on, to subdue someone whose beliefs were miles away and left no rightful place for her.

_No indeed. No British-Irish Agreement for us._

She craned her neck again to the television news. She wondered about these awkward bumbling men in painfully-patterned neckties, making their tentative declarations of major triumph or their immediate proclamations of disappointment. She thought of her mother, a lifetime of trying to answer for the man she married. _I can't very well expect Peter to spend his life answering for me,_ thought Assumpta.

"'Unity_ if_ they ever vote for it'," said Padraig, parroting the other O'Kelly on the TV screen but adding a layer of doubt.

Michael shrugged. "Never presume to know where someone else's heart lies," he said.


	21. Black Saturday and the Great Vigil

Peter had looked forward to the morning of Black Saturday, the calm before the storm. For a few hours, no obligations - no Mass to say, no Eucharist to give, no one to see - unless, of course, he was called to give a dying person the Last Rites. No priest ever escaped that duty, not even when-

The ringing telephone nearly startled him out of his skin.

"Father Clifford speaking," he breathed.

* * *

As Peter made his way to the front door of Siobhan's house, he prepared himself for a dozen possibilities. Someone was visiting and had a heart attack - Brendan? Padraig? She herself had been well enough to speak...a moribund veterinary patient? Surely she knew better than that. Peter's heart pounded. All she'd said was "Can you come over?"

When he arrived, he could see her eyes were red and swollen, but she had a pot of tea on and made no motion to lead him to a body. Instead, she sat him at her coffee table.

"Something's happened," she said, weakly. "Life as I know it is over."

_...Slow-acting poison?_ "What's happened?" he managed.

"I'm pregnant."

His career had prepared him for a million different takes on those words. Niamh's elation, the first time; her cocktail of paranoia and optimism, the second. A teenage athlete in despair. A woman who had to choose between continuing the pregnancy and her own life-saving chemotherapy. He had always managed to find the right thing to say, to listen without judgment and offer support.

But he'd never before seen the look on Siobhan's face. She had the paranoia and the despair, but also the look of someone who'd just shaken hands with an extraterrestrial. She was older than Peter and, he'd always thought, a few shades smarter than just about everyone in town. Lately, he thought she might have him beat on the morality count as well, by a few goals at least.

He could think of no wisdom to share. He simply put his arms around her.

"These things happen in threes, right?" she mumbled into his shoulder. "There'll be one more surprise any day now, won't there?"

_Oh, just you wait,_ he thought - then realised he was a step behind. "Wait, what was the first?"

Siobhan's face brightened a little. "Hold on."

She rose and opened the bathroom door.

* * *

An hour later, Joey was still curled asleep in the priest's lap.

"At least the fur will blend in with the suit," Siobhan joked.

"I hope the drool does as well," Peter smiled. "So he can't stay here?"

She pushed out her lower lip and blew a puff of air through her red fringe. "Pregnant women shouldn't handle cat litter."

"And the father?" he asked, tentatively.

She gave a look of warning that quickly melted into resignation. "If I tell him - it turns out he's violently allergic."

"Oh," said the curate, wondering if his own unspoken truth was as obvious as hers.

She looked at the cat now. "I'd say he's made his preference clear."

"I'm quite taken with him," Peter admitted. _What am I doing? I don't even know where I'll be living next week!_

**Welcome the stranger.**

_I must be going mad._

**Just do it.**

_Where were you yesterday?!_

**Holding my tongue. You weren't where you're meant to be.**

_Am I now?_

**You're closer.**

"I'll take him on," Peter said, having no clue how he'd manage this.

"Will it bother your landlord?"

He smiled nervously. "Hardly matters."

"Well, would you look at the pair of us?" Siobhan said, relaxing more by the minute. "Unexpected little ones, all round."

He recalled Niamh's useless gift, weeks ago. He thought of the christening ahead, of nursing mothers, of fussy infants, of necessary retreats during the sermon.

_That's it. _

* * *

Ambrose lit his candle from the Paschal flame as it travelled up the aisle, then shared this light with Niamh, who passed it to her father, who offered it to Imelda. The glow began to spread into the dark church, taper by taper, pew by pew. Sharper minds held the lit candle upright, bringing the unlit wick to meet it. Duller ones took their chances with the reverse operation, spilling hot wax onto their wrists and gasping into the dark.

He supposed it was rather like faith itself: you could try to force someone else to share the light, and risk burning him and singeing your own eyebrows, or you could wait for him to come to you, stand straight, be ready._  
_

His mind wandered to his son's big day tomorrow as the light continued to overcome the dark, as the priest's shaky voice labored through the Exsultet. Ambrose wondered how Kieran must be faring in the care of Siobhan, who had seemed strangely insistent on babysitting this evening.

Ambrose heard Brian heave a sigh, no doubt longing for a cantor or a deacon who could more reliably carry a tune. Perhaps the change Niamh kept hinting at had to do with this. Some low-level shakeup, something that made it essential that they have Kieran christened before the arrival of some unknown quantity, some major force for change...

It dawned on Ambrose, just what was about to happen, slowly, gradually, like a thousand white candles lighting up one at a time - not abrupt but still astounding.

It also astounded him to feel neither frightened nor betrayed, but quite irrationally safe and calm.

* * *

It was late when Peter arrived home - well, what was home for now - and set his alarm for an ungodly hour, but he relaxed quickly with a warm black lump at his side. "Don't let's get too settled in," he said. "Tomorrow we may be lodging in a Ford Fiesta."

He dreamt an Easter Sunday where he stood totally naked before the congregation. He could tell it was making them uneasy, kept feeling he should at least find a frock to cover himself, but he simply couldn't muster the energy. He couldn't muster energy to do _anything_. He sensed also that he couldn't put on clothes without somehow admitting his nakedness had been wrong.

He searched the pews for Assumpta. She was nowhere. Father Mac finally came up to take his place at the altar, but Peter could hardly move.

He awoke to a small high voice, clamouring for a tin of tuna.

_First day of the rest of my life,_ he thought.


	22. Easter Sunday part I

_Happy Easter, all!_

_On one hand, you had to know I'd try to get the first bit of Easter posted in time for Easter Sunday. On the other hand, you had to have guessed that I'd drag the Easter part of the story out over more than one chapter. Here's the first piece of it. Please let me know what you think, even if you see this later! I know it's a busy weekend for lots of us._

_Peter gets...quite opinionated in my hands. It's not meant as an author tract, although one reason I've always identified with the character is the way he seemed to view certain complex matters. Again, let me know if you think it's hamfisted or out-of-character.  
_

* * *

Peter had fed the cat, packed his suitcase, showered (hot), shaved, and dressed. Here it was: the day he'd christen Kieran and then turn his own world upside down.

He stepped into the sweet morning air, locking the curate's house behind him. _Would have helped if I could've told anyone. _

Too late now.

"Father Clifford!"

He hadn't noticed Father Mac standing at the edge of the path.

"I hope the formal address is still all right," the older man continued. "I find I'm a bit late to the game. Seems someone went over my head."

Peter tried to catch his breath. "I owe an explanation-"

"Oh, I'm with the program now," drawled Father Mac. "Little bird hinted something might be going on, so I got in touch with the bishop. Always have felt somewhat between a rock and a hard place, working between him and you. So iconoclastic, so contrarian, both of you. How many years now of women at the foot-washing?" he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Father-"

"Easy, now. I have to get back to Cilldargan. I have time enough to walk you to church," he joked drily.

Continuing across the yard, Peter saw Kathleen arriving. She averted her eyes at the sight of the two priests.

* * *

"You look beautiful," said Ambrose, appearing behind Niamh in the bedroom mirror, startling her as she adjusted an earring.

She twirled to face him and looked down at the ice blue dress. "You like it?"

"You'd still look gorgeous in a hideous yellow sack, but yes, it's lovely." He stepped into the room and drew close to her, putting his arms around her waist and dipping his forehead to touch hers.

Her heart sped up and her voice got husky. "Do you think we have time for-"

"Ready?" came a shrill voice. Ever possessed of an instinct for shattering moments, Imelda now appeared in the door. Her jaw wobbled at the sight of her daughter-in-law. "Oh, you bought that one."

"Fits perfectly," Niamh smirked.

"New stretch fabrics. Miracle of science," Imelda spat.

Niamh squeezed her husband's fingers so hard they throbbed.

* * *

Brian pulled his Land Rover into the parking lot at St. Joseph's. He patted his breast pocket to make sure the envelope was there, and then recoiled as if he'd bruised a pectoral.

_So much for that Hinterlands holiday,_ he thought. Then he had a warmer thought:

_If it'll shut Imelda up, I'll do it again every Easter until the boy moves out._

* * *

It was official. Kieran Egan was a baptised Catholic. He'd been tranquil and happy throughout the service, nothing but fondness in his eyes as Peter filled the silver scallop shell with holy water, wet the baby's head thrice, then anointed him with the chrism, blessed just days before. As Assumpta nervously took the candle, Peter took care not to beam too broadly at the sight of the glow on her face. Kieran's own smile persisted as he was presented to the applauding congregation, and as his parents and godmother and grandfather kissed him.

Granny Imelda's kiss put an abrupt stop to the baby's good mood. Niamh reached for him, but on Peter's nod of approval, Assumpta stopped her. "I'd say my duties start now," she whispered, passing the candle to Brian as she took the baby into her arms. Peter panicked for a moment, realising she was sure to miss his announcement - to be the last to know in the whole town.

Then he remembered what he had hidden in the podium.

He reached through the slit in his vestments and retrieved the sacristy key from his pocket. Assumpta took it and nodded gratefully, stroking Kieran's head to calm him as she carried him out.

Letting herself into the sacristy, she found a place to sit, and noticed a crackling noise on a shelf nearby. It was a baby monitor - though the wrong side of it if Peter was using it to police activity in here: the receiver.

Assumpta could now make out Peter's voice on the speaker, as if he had the transmitter hidden in the pulpit. Now, she realised, that's exactly what he'd done. Figuring his voice might help calm the infant (and perhaps just a little curious about the homily) she turned up the volume a few notches.

"Back in my home parish, there was a middle-aged man having trouble with his teenage son. The father went to seek a little priestly advice one day. He said, 'Father, my son refuses to darken the door of a church. He's on this big rebellious kick right now, keeps saying he's spiritual without being religious. It's doing my head in. Can you talk some sense into him, please?'

"The response was, I think, not quite what the father hoped to hear. 'I'll speak with him anytime he likes, but I'm not too terribly worried.' The father was irate at this, a priest so many years his junior taking such a cavalier approach. The father said, 'Explain yourself.' The priest said, 'Our job as the church isn't to browbeat people who think they can be spiritual without being religious. Our job is to _make sure that we aren't being religious without being spiritual_. That way, when those people need us, they'll feel they've something to come back to, someplace they won't be judged for drifting from the fold. That's how you stop them from becoming the sort of fundamentalist nonbelievers who declare all faith poison, who say all believers are brainwashed. That's how you prove that kind of thinking wrong.'

"The father got more and more upset. He said, 'Look, if I wanted someone half my age to pat me on the head and re-educate me in the way of the world, I'd listen to the bl-" Peter edited himself. "...To the Mormon missionaries at my door every other week.' And he stormed off, just furious, and he even told his son of the hopeless poppycock that was passing for ministry. The teenager found it all very amusing.

"Not long after that, the father learned he was very ill, and within about a year's time, he passed away. And his rebellious, messy-haired, know-it-all teenage son was devastated by this, more so because they'd never quite got eye-to-eye on things. The teenage son was so wracked with grief, he did the unthinkable: he dropped by the church one afternoon, and poured his heart out to this smart-mouthed radical priest.

"And the priest just sat, and listened, and tried to reassure him a little that his father's death wasn't the end of the story, wasn't the end of the admittedly complicated love between them. And it certainly wasn't God's punishment for sleeping through Mass week after week. The boy took some comfort in this, and little by little, he started coming to church again. The experience ultimately affected him so much, he went on to be ordained himself when he grew up.

"Lest you think I'm shining my own shoes here, I want to clarify: I was not that young, know-it-all hippie priest. His name was Father Burke. I was the teenage rebel he counselled in my hour of need.

"In recent months, I've come to find I was in danger of being what Father Burke warned about: religious but not spiritual. I've followed the rules, the covenants I made, everywhere but my heart. I've gone through the motions, and I've tried to stay a beacon even as doubt and weakness were gripping me from within. I've come to a realisation and I feel bound to bring it to light as we celebrate this most significant feast day of resurrection, renewal, and rebirth: if I am to emerge with my faith intact, I must make a big, big sacrifice."

Assumpta heard herself say it out loud: "What are you giving up, Peter?"

"I'm giving up the priesthood."

Back in the church, he couldn't bear to look over the congregation right now. If he had, he'd have seen a lot of solemn faces nodding at what they suspected was coming for some time now, and a few different varieties of relief and surprise intermixed among them. Padraig put an arm around his son. Siobhan was startled to feel Brendan squeeze her hand. Niamh gave Ambrose a look that simply said, "See?" Ambrose stared back, slowly nodding yes. The two grandparents exchanged expressions of pure shock.

In the sacristy, Assumpta's heart was pounding so hard, she feared it would wake the baby in her arms. She stared at the baby monitor speaker, mouth agape.

Peter's voice started streaming out again, wavering just a little. "I've spoken with the bishop, and we've agreed that Kieran Egan's christening would be a good last act in this role, a way to leave a legacy that might grow into something greater. Bishop Costello will work with Father Mac to find an interim priest, and the diocese has begun its search for a new official curate. I'm not to participate in that search, but members of the parish are invited to contact the bishop or the parish priest with any concerns or suggestions."

Assumpta felt tears beginning to streak her face. She tried to stop them with her sleeve before they reached Kieran's head. "You've had enough poured on you today, haven't you?" she sniffled.

"Some of you may now be thinking, 'If he loves us so much, why's he leaving?' The answer is, I hope not to be. I intend to remain a resident of Ballykissangel and find meaningful work outside the clergy. But you deserve a priest who can trust in miracles, who can concentrate on his work, who can be religious and spiritual and a leader. I had to give up one of those to spare the other two. St. Joseph's deserves a rebirth, a resurrection, a renewal, a true Easter.

"You mean the world to me." He had written it _"all of you mean the world,"_ but as he spoke the words he had exactly one person in mind.

Back in the sacristy, she heard it.


	23. Easter Sunday part II

_Much like my abstinence from certain junk foods, my quick updates seem to have fallen by the wayside as soon as the lights came up at the Great Vigil. Sorry for the delay! I can't tell you enough how much all your encouragement has meant to me._

_Still not entirely sure how many more chapters are in this. We're nearing the end, to be sure, but there's a lot left to unpack. Your feedback on this point is well appreciated!  
_

* * *

Kathleen's clumsy musicianship signalled the start of the recessional. As the bell clanged, Peter wanted more than anything to bolt for the sacristy and check on Assumpta. Still, he knew duty called him to stand once more by the exit and greet (or at least face) his parishioners as they went out into the world again.

At the same moment, Assumpta wanted nothing more than to hunker down in the sacristy until the entire congregation had left for home. Unfortunately, she suspected the Egans would probably want their infant son back sooner or later, and if he didn't need a change already, he certainly would soon. So she closed the heavy self-locking door behind her and carried her godson across the courtyard, a scenic route back toward the narthex.

The result was that Assumpta was the first face Peter saw. Her eyes were wide and, he noticed, a little red.

As a few acolytes stumbled past, he drew in a breath. He only had a few seconds.

"Should have told you first. I'm sorry."

She shrugged as if it were a trivial thing. "They're going to let you stay in town?"

He felt bolder, suddenly. "Their orders don't fully come into it anymore."

"Vows don't dissolve that easily."

"What'll they do, defrock me?"

She looked full of questions, but the tide of Easter churchgoers was upon them now, coursing between them. Some shook Peter's hand as though nothing new had come to pass; some gave him tearful hugs; some approached Assumpta to dote on Kieran, the rightful man of the hour.

* * *

Back in the front pew, the Quigley-Egan family were set to be last out the doors.

"So this was what you meant when you cornered me the other day and told me to keep my nose out of it?" Brian asked as they shuffled behind the slow-moving crowd.

Niamh nodded. "Surprised?"

"Not entirely, no," Brian said.

Imelda looked at Ambrose. "If a priest had upstaged _your _ christening that way I'd have been fit to be tied!"

"Never too late," Brian mumbled.

"What?" squawked Imelda.

"Nothing," Brian covered.

"Daddy?" Niamh cut in.

"Yes?"

"Remember what we talked about."

The businessman looked indignant, but cowed. "I know, I know."

* * *

Easter-egg festivities took precedence at St. Joseph's, and naps took it at the Garda house. As a result, the reception for Kieran at Fitzgerald's was hours later. Assumpta tried her hardest to keep her mind on the party. She was losing the will to do so. Peter was keeping his distance, sticking to the shadows; would they never have an hour's privacy to talk?

Just when it seemed her nerves couldn't get any more frayed, in walked Father Mac, looking as always like a bird of prey. Assumpta waited for him to attack Peter, but to her surprise and horror, he sat down at the bar before her.

"Tullamore Dew Single Malt, neat," he said. She accepted his coins and prepared the drink. When she reached into the till to make change, he dismissed her.

"What do you want?"

"To ask a question about today's service, that's all."

Assumpta folded her arms.

The parish priest took it in stride. "Tell me, Assumpta: when the water touched Kieran's brow, did he smile and laugh, or did he throw a tantrum?"

"Well, Gran's lipstick sent him into a snit later, but he was a perfect angel over the font."

"That's what I was afraid of."

"I don't follow." Assumpta didn't trust where this was headed.

"Well, in my career I've developed a little pet theory about babies at christening. I've christened a number of the people here tonight, including yourself."

"Don't remind me," the landlady grumbled.

Father Mac smirked. "Ambrose and Niamh were both holy terrors when the water hit them, kicking and screaming the whole way. Niamh even slapped me!"

"Good on her."

"Did your mother or father ever tell you that you were a breeze by comparison?"

Assumpta had to chuckle at this.

"Anyway, in these and many other cases, it seems the hellraisers grow up to be devout, and the perfect angels go on to make trouble. You're Kieran's godmother now. I have a wild hunch he'll turn out rather like you. Your own attitudes about the Church notwithstanding, try to model good behaviour for the boy." He punctuated this with a sip and a fixed look. "At least, by the time he's old enough to notice."

Assumpta rolled her eyes as if trying to monitor a cloud above her own head. "Happy Easter, Father Mac."

Brendan waited until Assumpta's back was turned before he allowed himself to grin at this exchange. Father Mac still made him uneasy, too, after all these years. Still, Brendan had known from Assumpta's early days that she would be able to give as good as she got from the rigid-minded priest.

Turning to Siobhan to share in a quiet chuckle, he saw her staring a hole in the taps with eyes too tired to blink. Brendan tried a nudge to the elbow; Siobhan wobbled a bit and blinked once. He nudged her again; she added a grunt and a glare.

"Penny for-"

"No."

He thought for a moment. "Lager for-"

"Not now."

He settled back onto his barstool, perplexed.

* * *

Brian and Imelda cornered the young parents at the other end of the bar.

"We have a present for the newly baptised," Imelda said. Ambrose's eyes went wide as he rocked his son; Niamh flinched a little.

Brian reached into his coat pocket and fished out a small, crisp envelope. "Imelda and I pooled our resources," he said.

Imelda nodded. "It's yours to invest in his future as you wish, but it is enough to hire a few months' nanny."

Niamh opened the envelope and gasped at the amounts on the two cheques within.

Ambrose swallowed. "You're sure about this?"

Brian nodded solemnly. "Not that you don't have matters well in hand on your own. But we all know the pub runs better with Niamh helping out. Has her mother's business acumen, she does. And when the pub runs better, people are happier, and it's good for business elsewhere."

Niamh glanced at Assumpta to check for a reaction, but Assumpta was miles away.

"And it might give you time to spend alone together," Imelda added. "When Ambrose was little I'd have loved a little domestic help."

"I don't know what to say," Niamh whispered.

"First time for everything," her father retorted.

"Only promise you'll hire someone who loves him as deeply as we do," said Imelda.

Niamh looked over her shoulder at the man in the now-unadorned black suit, likewise miles away, though physically playing hostage to Father Mac's cigar smoke and unsolicited advice.

"Think I know just the person."

* * *

"I do wish you hadn't gone over my head."

Peter tried to concentrate. He turned from the object of his focus and watched Father Mac tap his pungent cigar on the ashtray, thinking he'd rather some holy incense.

"Sorry?"

"I was your confessor. Still am, if you'll have one."

"I'm not walking away from Catholicism!"

"You should be able to confide in me. You needn't have driven all the way to Carlow!"

Peter ran a thumb down the wall of his pint glass, leaving a clear road through the condensation. "The feeling I couldn't be open with you was part of my decision."

"You make it sound as if any man with secrets couldn't be a real priest."

"Did you ever really think of me that way?"

"Fa..._Peter_," the older man corrected himself. "If you weren't the real thing, who shall we say made the mistake? You? The Church? Not God, surely."

Peter looked once more at Assumpta. "I have no problem viewing the whole sequence of events as His will."

Father Mac braced a thumb and forefinger at his temples. "Was it not all for Assumpta Fitzgerald?"

"No. I wasn't meant for it." Peter thought about it. "But I could've gone on faking forever if I hadn't come here."

Father Mac looked away uncomfortably and drew another puff on his cigar.

* * *

Assumpta had hoped Peter would linger past closing - they still hadn't found a moment to talk alone - but at about twenty minutes before, a startled look had appeared on him, and he had bailed for home with barely a wave as if he'd left the burner on.

She buzzed through last orders, waiting for the chance to send the guest of honour and his retinue home. Peter's absence made the regulars' behaviour more obvious, almost retroactively. A pile of balled-up foil wrappers suggested Niamh had been obliterating those Cadbury Caramel Eggs all night, her eyes seeming to flare with the promise of a new scheme as she bit into the smooth chocolate shells. Ambrose had left a half-done puzzle on a table, with Assumpta's permission. And Assumpta noticed Siobhan was unusually quiet, with Brendan seeming to hound her about what was the matter, even as she walked out the door.

Assumpta was wondering where the strength to clean up might be found, when she heard Fionn's familiar plea for a little constitutional.

"Fine by me," she said. The dishes and party decorations could wait.

She decided that, within reason, the dog could dictate the course of this journey. As luck might have it, this meant Fionn leading her up to St. Joseph's.

The extra paces to the door of the curate's house were admittedly her own idea.

The hour was hardly decent, but all his lights looked to be on.

_Just knock. _

_Ugh, I can't do this. _

_He quit his job in front of the whole town today, and I can't knock on a door?_

She tapped the door softly with a quivering fist.

It was, apparently, enough for him to hear.

Peter opened the door only a crack.

"Can't I come in?" she asked.

Peter looked behind him nervously, then at Assumpta, then at Fionn. "Hang on."

Then he shut the door.


	24. Easter Sunday part III

_Sorry for the delay - what midterm exams and Holy Week couldn't deter, problems with Wi-Fi and electrics apparently could. Your reviews/follows/favourites have been rays of light all along. Thanks for those and for your patience: I suspect I'm moving slow on this resolution for fear of rushing through it. Another step closer, now...  
_

* * *

Assumpta waited on the stoop, feeling like a sucker. Peter was hiding something. For a moment Assumpta wondered if some other woman had already thrown herself at him in celebration of his impending freedom. Hadn't parishioners fallen for him back home? But it seemed absurd. Anyway, no one had followed him to the pub.

Perhaps Quigley had already evicted him, and he had three hours to gather his belongings. It wouldn't _take_ three hours...

He opened the door again, now dressed for the cool air that threatened a sprinkle of rain. He pet the dog. "Can I walk with you lot instead?"

"Hiding something?"

He looked at Fionn again. "Not from you."

Assumpta frowned and shoved the lead into Peter's chest. He grabbed it and watched her storm into his quarters. With a sigh, he sat on the step, and the dog slumped beside him.

He didn't even hear the door when she emerged again.

"He's quite irresistible," she said. "Dressed in black, big green eyes, tough combination to say no to."

Peter turned to see Assumpta cradling the cat, bending down to let him sniff the dog. So far the two animals didn't seem terribly frightened, or even much impressed of one another.

"Come inside," she said. "The pair of you."

* * *

"I'd never seen Fionn round cats before," Peter remarked from behind the refrigerator door.

"Not true," said Assumpta, accepting a beer. "That fat red tabby that sneaked into the play rehearsal."

"Oh, right. Not a good precedent."

"Don't be silly. Enda Sullivan fell on his arse; what's not to like about that?"

Peter had to smile.

Assumpta leant against the counter, eyeing the violet paperboard box in the middle of the table. "Collected some alms, so."

"More impressive by weight than by value," he said.

Assumpta crossed to the table and nudged the box to test this. When it didn't move, she lifted it, startled by its heft.

"Porcelain pig might have been more structurally-sound," she joked.

As if to prove it, the bottom chose this moment to drop out, dumping the mass of coins and currency into a mound on the table. Assumpta gasped, face reddening. Peter could not stifle his laugh.

"I'll clean it up," she said, raising a hand in promise. "You have anything I can...?"

He tried to think of something he hadn't already packed, and suddenly remembered a biscuit tin in the cupboard.

He brought it down and checked its contents. "I'm afraid you'll have to help me empty it first." He arranged the ginger nuts on a plate and rinsed out the crumbs.

She smirked. "Perfect accompaniment to lager."

Peter watched as two bronze eyes took in the sight of the treats, then of the hill of mostly copper coins. Assumpta held one biscuit in midair, making it wait for the heaven of her mouth.

"Wonder how many of those coins carried a wish into a well at one time or another," she said, finally taking a bite.

"In a way, all of them." His voice wavered more than he'd have liked. She looked at him now, pressing for an explanation. He went on. "I tried to put a coin in the box every time I thought of you. I wished I could think about anything else."

She looked away and made a rushed exhale, the kind he'd come to recognise as masking her shyness when someone truly flattered her. Finishing her biscuit, she quickly began scooping coins into the tin.

He joined the effort. The soft percussion of colliding lightweight metals emboldened him to continue. "After a short time it was nearly full, so I switched to bills...sort of buying indulgences in advance," he admitted. "I knew that wasn't how priests were supposed to behave. I thought about living without the title, and I realised I could. I thought about trying to live without you, and..."

Their hands brushed over the last few pieces. They locked eyes.

"I can't," he said.

The tears in her eyes belied the soft chuckle that followed.

Peter felt an odd mix of panic and relief. "What?" he breathed.

"I was just thinking as I watched you this morning," she said, "how if they'd only made them like you when I was young enough, I might've stayed with the church."

They exchanged bittersweet smiles. "If I'd met you when I was young enough, I'd have never taken up the cloth."

She looked around - the cat, the bare walls, the rucksack propped near the door. "So what happens now?"

He shrugged. "Find a way to earn a living. Find a place to live that'll let me keep Joey."

She nodded uneasily. Both of them knew there were less-scandalous places for him to work and reside than at Fitzgerald's, at least for a start. Both of them also knew he had a place there if he needed it.

She rose unsteadily and crossed to the sink to wash the smell of small change off her hands. He followed, waiting his turn, accepting the soap, going under the stream just as her hands left it.

"I should go clean up," she said, nodding at the clock, then at the dog. "Get him a biscuit of his own as well."

"It's late. Let me walk you home."

She shot a look at him. "Says the strange man I once picked up on the side of the road."

He picked up Fionn's lead. "'Come in,' she said, 'I'll give you shelter from the storm.'"

"Bob Dylan, was it?"

He nodded. _God, I've missed you._

* * *

The rain had come and gone during their delicate hour of nibbling and coin-scooping. The windows along the street were uniformly dark until they reached the pub, shuttered but still aglow. She loosed Fionn into the bar, but didn't yet follow him.

"Help you tidy up?" he offered.

She glanced up and down the road, checking for witnesses. "You're not worried about the neighbours?"

He dropped his eyes and gave a shy half-laugh. "They already know I'm in love with you."

It was the first time either one of them had said it aloud. It took her breath away; he seemed surprised to hear himself.

"Sure I could find some chairs for you to straighten," she managed.

Four paces into the pub, she heard him shut the door, and then felt his hand on her shoulder.

"'Sumpta," he whispered, pulling her close.

Not bothering to feign hesitation, she reached for him, lacing her fingers across the back of his neck. "Do we finally have the right to do this?"

"Long as you don't tell the pope," he said, leaning in.

"It's a wonder they kept you out of trouble as long as-"

The predictable end of the phrase was lost forever, from her mouth into his_._


	25. Easter Monday part I

_All right, here's the chapter I've been nervous about. You'll notice the rating's still a T. I'd been wrestling with just how MUCH to resolve the unresolved, and how much of it to show. The tone of this story seemed to answer both questions for me; I hope it comes across as "in keeping with the complicated formula," rather than "fence-sitting discretion-cut." Might still be controversial, all the same. (Inevitable, maybe, when writing religion and sex.)  
_

_You'll also notice this still isn't marked "complete" - still a few loose ends to tie off. (Thanks again for all your kind words and suggestions. Eninaj: Fr. Mac is absolutely an owl! LMS5XP, enduring exams; though old enough to inflict, I'm not qualified for such.)  
_

_A belated "happy birthday" to Margaux! Hope the flu has gone on its merry way. Now: back to the kiss.  
_

* * *

Peter tried to memorise every piece of this moment: the burning dust smell and reassuring hum of the heating; the lingering traces of wind and incense in their hair, of lager and ginger in their mouths; the glow of a few sconces along the pub wall. His skin was a cold layer between warm exerted muscle and barely-dry clothes. His feet were tired; he'd spent so little of the day sitting still and relaxing.

She was pulling at him every way she could - beckoning his tongue with her own, tugging at his shirt, hanging more of her weight on him as if to coax him to the floor. The yearning within him had already announced itself, and she had to be aware of it. He ran a contoured hand along the lines of her body, marvelling at how familiar they already seemed. Had it been their last encounter, or the years of stolen looks?

The threat of official reprimand did nothing to dampen his desire; nor did the fear of wagging tongues. The wrath of God over these things had always seemed to him somewhat overstated, more an outgrowth of human obsession with desires of the flesh than the moral keystone of true faith. He was leaving his vocation for her - could anything be as final and intimate as that?

And for all his own years of careful restraint, he felt strangely bold. Performance anxiety had failed to arrive on schedule. He could think of no compelling reason to stop...

Until he remembered the look on Siobhan's face the day before.

He broke away from the deepening kiss. "'Sumpta, do you have..."

She had moved her lips to his neck, her hand further down. "Mmm?"

"Hold on!"

She pulled away. "Oh, no. I'm sorry, I never meant to push you."

"No, I mean...I'm not prepared, I haven't brought any..."

Her eyes widened as she grasped this. "No, I suppose you wouldn't have..." A laugh overtook her.

He scowled, the mood utterly spoilt.

"Sorry, sorry," she muttered, recovering her composure.

"Is it so surprising?"

"No, no, I...maybe that you'd condone it, but-"

"You might recall I wasn't exactly in lockstep with the Vatican on everything," he grumbled.

"You can't expect me to know that. I didn't go to your infamous lecture."

"Suffice it to say we're lucky Father Mac didn't, either." His expression softened. "Maybe it would have been better if he had. Settled things sooner-"

"Ah, hush."

For a bit, they both did. She began the task of collecting glasses, and he took to straightening chairs.

Finally the dog's unaccompanied snoring proved too much to bear. "I do want to," he said suddenly.

She looked up. "Peter-"

"I need you to keep in mind it's been a very long time for me." He caught her gaze, daring her to back out now.

She put up a relaxed smile and massaged the bar with a towel. "Same for me." Noticing his doubtful reaction, she added, "But I can think of no one I'd rather be clumsy and out-of-practise with. When the time's right."

The thought of her "clumsiness" brought his heart rate right back up again. He swallowed. "Right."

He tried to put up the chair in his hands. It seemed incredibly unwieldy.

"Oh, and for the record-" she began, cutting herself off. "Never mind."

"What?"

"It's stupid."

"No. What?"

She set down the towel and leant back from the bar. "Well, when I first took over the pub, randy tourists kept asking me where they might find certain...protective incidentals. I couldn't very well direct them across the street, so I started keeping a stockpile of my own." She pulled a small basket from under the bar.

He felt himself grinning - always stronger on that one side, couldn't be helped.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. It's business. There are better souvenirs to leave this town with than a baby. No call for going native."

"You know what I think?"

She glared. "What?"

"I think you're a good person and a conscientious businesswoman." He paused, bracing his forearms on the feet of the upturned chair. "Wait, you mean you occasionally have bookings here?"

The fire in her eyes blazed brighter. "Oh, Clifford, you're in for it now."

* * *

Good thing there _hadn't _ been any lodgers at Fitzgerald's that night, Assumpta realised. They'd have heard a noisy stampede as a woman chased a man up the stairs to her room, and then decidedly undignified laughter as he let her catch him in an ineffectual tackle, nudging the door shut with a wayward foot.

He had frozen in place.

_Oh, no._

"What's wrong?" she whispered, heart sinking.

He looked around him. "It just seems familiar."

She tilted her head and blinked. "You stayed a night once before."

"But not in your room." Without turning behind him to judge the distance, he drew her dancelike toward the bed. When the backs of his knees reached the edge of the mattress, he tumbled onto it, pulling her with him.

"I don't think you'd believe how many times I've dreamt about this," she whispered, making her way down the placket of his shirt.

He smiled. "Oh, you might be surprised."

* * *

Had he slept? He supposed he must have. He'd certainly never felt so relaxed or contented. The woman he cradled was sleeping still, hair mussed and skin dewy, even more beautiful than he'd dreamt.

In this country, in this village, in this pub, in this room, in this bed, in _her_, he had a truer sense of belonging than he'd known in all his life. If there'd been any doubt before, now it was clear: he wanted to spend the rest of his days in these arms, these sheets, this building, this world.

Yesterday's events floated to the surface of his memory now, like a new haircut or a sprained ankle. He only hoped he hadn't blown it with the rest of the town.

Then he remembered at least one resident who'd be sure to protest if his breakfast was late. What time was it? It wasn't yet light out...

Peter considered slipping out without trying to wake Assumpta, but he quickly imagined her fury no matter when she found out. So instead, he traced senseless patterns on the skin of her back. The lights of her eyes came on slowly. At first, she stared at him in wonder.

_Beg me to stay,_ he prayed.

She looked around in panic. Finally her eyes managed to focus on the clock. "Oh, God, you'd better get out of here."

"G'morning to you," he answered. She dismissed this with a hurried kiss on his mouth, all but pushing him out of bed. He reassembled his clothes, half expecting the suit not to fit anymore, or to disintegrate on contact with his flesh. In fact it felt the same.

"Get on with you," she hissed, scrambling naked to put one more kiss on him.

"So last night, was-"

"Grand. Go, now!"

"I love you."

"I love you, too. Now bog off!"

Peter went home, amazed at what had happened.


	26. Easter Monday part II

Joey ate his fill of tinned fish as his new servant washed up. He wondered where the lanky man had been all night; wherever it was, he seemed happy. Joey had enjoyed sleeping beside the lanky man the other night, and he rather hoped to make a regular thing of it. No human had let ever let him do that before.

The light was growing brighter through the windows. There was a pounding at the door and the lanky man bolted out of his terribly inefficient cleansing chamber and down the stairs, wrapped in a glorious coat made out of what appeared to be towels, which were Joey's favourite.

The lanky man opened the door and shyly greeted a woman - not the one with the dog, nor the one who found Joey on her porch. This one had something fluffy in her hair and a small weird human in her arms, which Joey supposed was their version of a kitten. The woman forced her way inside and sat down as the lanky man ran back upstairs. He came down again in less-wondrous clothes a moment later.

Joey watched them speak to each other. It seemed they were discussing the little human; the lanky man smelt surprised and afraid and happy all at once. Suddenly he got quiet; Joey could tell he was talking about him. The lanky man patted his own lap. Joey jumped into it. The woman looked at him a moment, then rose and picked up something small and rectangular. She touched it a few times, then put it against the side of her head.

* * *

Ambrose set down his mother's suitcases and raised a finger as he went to get the phone. Imelda folded her arms and plopped back onto the sitting room sofa.

"Ah, Niamh," Ambrose said. "Did you make the offer? ... Right. Good..." his face changed from giddy to wary. "Really? What kind? ... Black cat, no, I mean longhair, shorthair? ... And Kieran isn't reacting?"

Imelda's eyes went wide. "I can't stand cats!" she whispered.

Ambrose covered the mouthpiece. "Niamh says she's always loved them." He smiled and spoke into the phone. "Did you discuss the sleeping quarters? ...Good, good. All right. Love you."

"Who has a cat?!" Imelda demanded.

Ambrose hung up and beamed. "Our new nanny. Live-in for the first couple months!"

"Who is she?!"

"Peter Clifford. And we couldn't have done it without you." Ambrose pecked his mother on the cheek.

Imelda shook her head. "Men can't be nannies!"

Ambrose picked up the suitcases again. "Nonsense. Women can get their feet washed. Men can be nannies. We're that sort of town."

Imelda groaned.

"Come on, mother, you'll be late to return the car."

* * *

It had always seemed strange to Brendan how days of remembrance inevitably had to compete with parties. He had hoped to spend his Easter Monday in quiet contemplation of the events of 1916, but contemplation demanded a draught Guinness, and Fitzgerald's had the television blaring the broadcast of the Irish Grand National.

The telecast meant the presence of a certain irritable woman - and, judging by her Diet Coke, one apparently uninterested in tempering her grumpiness with a pint.

He dutifully took the seat beside her and called through the propped-open kitchen door. "Assumpta, would you do us a pint of the usual and a basket of chips to start?"

He waited for the usual biting retort, but the landlady emerged grinning, To Brendan this was startling enough, almost eerie; to make matters worse, it seemed to further annoy Siobhan.

Assumpta got to work on the pint. "What're you expecting, Siobhan?"

The redhead fumbled her near-empty can. It rattled on the bar. "What?"

"The race," said Assumpta, nodding at the screen. "Who are you backing?"

Siobhan's turquoise eyes relaxed slightly from their record width. "Oh. Bobbyjo, same as everyone else."

Assumpta nodded with a wary eye, and waltzed back into the kitchen to start the chips.

"She's awfully pert," grumbled the vet.

"Strange, isn't it?"

Siobhan shrugged and sipped her soft drink. Brendan waited until the hiss of the fryer put the publican out of earshot. He leaned close to Siobhan's ear. "Would you ever tell me what's the matter?"

Siobhan shrugged, but she turned to meet his eyes for a moment. Then she turned back to the race.

"Is it losing the priest?"

At this she snorted. "Change is a funny thing, Brendan. So often we see all the signs in hindsight."

"How's that?"

"Peter Clifford wasn't long for that line of work. He was the sort of progressive troublemaker who becomes a priest to subvert from within, tries to drag an old church kicking and screaming into line with the sentiments of its own people. I rooted for him meself, but I like a dark horse. It was long odds to start."

"What's your point, Siobhan?"

"I thought I understood a thing or two about probability, Brendan."

"Don't you?"

She pounded a fist on the counter, clearly frustrated. "If I did, I wouldn't be pregnant."

The fryer had gone silent at the worst possible second. Brendan heard Assumpta mutter "Oh, God" in unison with him.

Silence persisted until the chips arrived. Assumpta served them with a blank expression; when the phone rang, she sprinted for reception to grab the handset there.

Brendan pretended not to notice that Siobhan demolished most of the chips.

Bobbyjo won the race.

* * *

"Fitzgerald's," Assumpta panted into the phone.

"Niamh says we're lucky no one else was up nursing a baby at four a.m. to see me slink up the hill."

"Oh, no. Is she furious?"

"She pretended to be, but I think she gets a certain vicarious thrill from it." His breathing filled the pause on the line. She shivered at the memory of the last time she had heard it.

He went on, "Anyway, she'll have every chance to keep an eye on me now."

"How's that?"

"Found work. Are you busy?"

Assumpta glanced at the parents-to-be darkening the corner of the bar. "Far from it."

"I want to come round and tell you everything. I just...are you worried about people talking?"

She looked again - it seemed they weren't listening. "Not the present company, I'm sure."

She couldn't imagine the volume of this offhand reply had caught their attention. The whole world was Peter's voice in her ear: "I love you."

She lowered her voice. "Love you too. I can't stop thinking about last night."

"Neither can I. Be right over."

"See you in a minute."

She hung up and turned to see Brendan and Siobhan in the doorway behind her. _Oh, God._

"Get anyone a refill?" Assumpta offered weakly.

"Who was that?" Brendan asked.

"I believe it was a dark horse," Siobhan answered, her face suddenly bright again. Brendan's face reflected something like confusion, but whether this was about Siobhan's latest remark or whiplash following her news several minutes ago, Assumpta couldn't tell. She briefly entertained the notion of closing and sending her only two customers out, but they'd probably run into Peter on his way down the hill.

Unless, of course, he hadn't phoned from his house. As a matter of fact, if he'd called from the Garda house, or the telephone box down the street, he'd be arriving right...about...

Now.

The door opened to reveal exactly who Assumpta thought it would; by the looks on the faces of Brendan and Siobhan, they weren't totally surprised either. _Backing the same horse as everyone else, _ thought Assumpta.

She met his eyes, nodded toward her customers, and cleared her throat. Siobhan caught Brendan's attention and did the same. The men got the message quick enough.

"Well, now that we all know each other's most intimate secrets," Brendan began, "how about a little mutually-assured destruction?"

"There's no need for blackmail," Siobhan replied. "Though I'm half-tempted to make a wager on who'll be the hotter gossip."

"What's so hot about him?" Brendan smirked. "He's not going to be a priest anymore."

Assumpta looked at Peter. "What will you do, now, anyway?"

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but the door opened again to admit Liam and Donal, both equally wide-eyed and humming some bit of the score to _Mary Poppins._

"That'll do, lads," Peter sighed.

Laughter got the best of Brendan now. "Siobhan, I think we're in the clear."

* * *

_Just a little ways to go now. Really. I mean it._


	27. From Tuesday On

_I am so grateful for all the favourites, follows, and feedback (and any more to come). Thank you all once again._

_This is it (finally!) for this story - though if anyone wants to continue it from here or write an "alternate storyline" from any other point within it, I invite you to do so. So many of you are inspirations to me, and as fanfiction writers I think we especially can offer that sort of invitation to one another._

_I have had such fun writing this, and I hope you've enjoyed reading it._

* * *

Behind the counter, Kathleen fought the doting instinct with every fibre of her being. She stuffed a toffee in her mouth, pinched the back of her hand. She reminded herself that her least-favourite priest in history, with his grating accent and his radical views, had fallen from grace. He was now not only having an affair with the publican, but also in a line of work totally unbecoming of a man.

She couldn't do it.

She could not scowl at the Egan baby, gangly male nanny notwithstanding. She could not fume when the shakeup had brought to town a wonderfully traditionalist interim priest, one with a pleasant brogue and a little white hair. She felt unable to control her smile, possessed even, as she cheerfully handed Peter the small Aran gansey she had finally finished, having told herself all the while she didn't know who it was for.

"Too big for him yet, but he'll grow into it by autumn," she heard herself say.

"It's beautiful," Peter said. "My mum's always said the Irish were the best knitters."

Kathleen beamed in spite of herself.

* * *

Assumpta re-counted the night's takings as Niamh wiped down the tables.

"This can't be right," the landlady muttered.

Niamh grinned. "No?"

"We never make this much on a Wednesday night."

The barback cleared her throat.

Assumpta looked up. "Oh, don't tell me..."

"Well drink specials? Decanted wine? Prompt and friendly service, even for those brutish tourists? 'Niamh, what brilliant ideas you had.' I know, I'm the greatest."

"Can't have made that much difference!"

Niamh smiled sweetly. "You're very welcome. Soon you can afford some of those repairs you keep moaning about. Maybe even a second changing table. Not everyone with a baby goes to the gents', you know."

Assumpta rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah."

* * *

As sometimes happens, the different kinds of grist in the rumour mill began interfering with one another. Within the space of a week or so, assorted people confronted Assumpta about an out-of-wedlock pregnancy, Peter about having an affair with Brendan, and finally Siobhan about abandoning her promising career to raise the Egan boy.

As the lines of whispered communication became more entangled, it seemed to the best village gossips that the real stories were entirely too tame by comparison. Like opposing fires bound for a common fuel source, the competing tales ultimately burned one another out.

* * *

Peter would come to call it the Season of Not Sleeping Alone.

His first three months at the Egans' had him keeping odd hours to match the parents' needs: light kips in the sitting room when they were out, cradling Kieran in a rocking chair, bottle at the ready; and heavy sleep alongside a purring Joey in the guest bedroom, monitor on the table, when Ambrose and Niamh were home.

Charmed as he was by these two tiny gentlemen, his favourite bedfellow was the one with whom he spent his carefully-inconspicuous night off, usually Monday. Truly staying overnight wasn't always practical; what hours he did spend felt like the most natural, logical thing in the world.

Despite the irregularities, he was finally sleeping well.

He did sometimes mourn the vocation that couldn't hold him. It helped to know that others held him nonetheless: his mum, reassuring on the phone; Joey, kneading his stomach; his young new bosses, grateful for a date night; Assumpta, calling him her own.

One evening he lay curled behind her in the bed of his dreams, breathing in her essence from the back of her neck.

"It's like when you taught me to drive," he panted. "You make me feel so...teenage and grown up, at the same time."

She shivered against him, a laugh escaping with it. "Oh, I didn't teach you that just now. That was new."

He put a hand on her shoulder - turn over. Look at me. She understood it, rolling inward to face him. Her eyes flashed as she stroked his upper arm.

"Kieran's getting heavy," he explained.

"Keeps you fit."

"Glad you like it."

"Mmhmm."

"Some things are about to happen, I think you should know," he whispered cautiously.

Her eyes widened. "Okay?"

"First thing, I'm expecting some post very soon. Notification that I've been officially released from the vow of chastity."

She smirked. "Ooh, will you come to bed with me then?"

He exacted a little playful revenge, taking away the blanket. Delighting in her shriek at the cold, he replaced it and pulled her close beneath. "That's a warning; may I finish?"

She gave him a pious nod, mismatched by a playful slap.

"All right. When that letter comes, my family gets a green light to come visit. They want to stay here, they want to meet you."

Assumpta gasped; he felt her waist pull even narrower in his embrace.

"Shh, relax. Third thing, I'll be moving out of the Garda house. I'll still babysit when they need me, but I won't be living there; I'll need to find a place."

Now she was perfectly still.

"I thought it might be a good time to beg you to let me work for my keep here..." he stammered.

She nodded.

"And to marry me."

For a moment she was quiet, a grin blooming slow on her mouth. "You did get the king cake baby. I suppose you still owe everyone a party."

"With more cake and different figurines?"

"Bride and a groom, dog and a cat?"

"Sounds perfect." Something dawned on him. "You haven't asked if it'll be in the church," he said, hushed.

Assumpta looked thoughtful. "It's a strange thing, Peter..." she trailed her fingers down the length of his arm, clasping his hand under the covers. "But if you can find someone good - if there still _ is_ someone out there half as good as you were... You gave up a lifetime at the altar for me; I can give up a few hours' worth of boycotting it for you."

Feeling remarkably close to laughing through tears, he pulled her against him now, let her settle her head over his heart.

"Love isn't only sacrifice, you know," he said.

THE END


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